


Paper Lanterns Among the Dark Trees

by kyrene



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 60,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrene/pseuds/kyrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fischer job, some of the former team come together once again, but there is something off about Eames. Can Arthur and Ariadne find out what's going on and can Arthur figure out how to fix it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** Non-graphic discussion of potential date-rape (in reference to a job, not of any of the main characters).

It was Ariadne that brought them all back together again.

Well, not _all_ of them. Yusuf refused unequivocally to leave Kenya, sighting the Fischer job as a major exception to his usual policy of avoiding fieldwork. Not to mention, he thought that most of them were crazy, and they couldn't really argue. Saito was busy with his business empire, and, besides, he had only dabbled in the dream-share out of acquisitive curiosity and some severe control issues, seeing as he'd had a highly personal investment in the outcome. Cobb was still iffy, wavering back and forth between his desire to stay with his children and his feeling of responsibility for getting Ariadne started in the business of extraction in the first place.

All right, so, technically, it was only Arthur and Eames that Ariadne had drawn back to her side, which was hardly _all_ of them. It was a good start, though, the three of them together.

Arthur had not been surprised when Ariadne had called him and told him that she had taken a job. He _was_ surprised when she had said that she'd already contacted Eames and gotten his promise to join her. Arthur had rather thought that, like Yusuf, Eames would have been only too happy to wash his hands of the lot of them, never see them again even for work.

But then, Eames' beef had been with Cobb, and Cobb had yet to decide whether or not he was joining them in this venture. So perhaps that had been the reason Eames had proven willing. Or maybe he was just fond of Ariadne. Arthur knew that he, himself, was. She was something of a prodigy, a student of Arthur as much as Cobb. In fact, Arthur was pretty sure he'd spent more time training her than Cobb had. Considering the tendency the projection of Mal had for stabbing or trying to stab Ariadne, it had seemed to all three of them -- Arthur, Ariadne, and Cobb -- to be the best way to handle things.

Arthur sometimes wondered what it said about Cobb's subconscious, about Cobb's feelings toward Ariadne, that his projection of Mal had reacted so violently and with such homicidal tendencies toward Ariadne. Not that Arthur had fared much better. That gunshot to the knee had been excruciating. He'd let Cobb get away with it without an angry word, but he had to wonder what sort of deep-seated hostilities the man might have been fostering toward him that had garnered that reaction.

Or maybe it had just been the way Cobb would have expected Mal to behave if she'd actually been trying to sabotage the job. Not that she would have done. Sabotaged the job, _or_ shot Arthur. So Arthur sincerely hoped and liked to think, anyway.

But, all that aside, Arthur had not been too surprised when Ariadne had called him, and he hadn't hesitated to say yes. He'd been taking a break, relaxing with his well earned chunk of Saito's money, but the quiet life didn't suit him, and he couldn't stay out of the dream-share for long. Like he had told Ariadne, there really was nothing like it. It was as addictive as any drug, and Arthur could admit that he was hooked.

Besides, he wouldn't have wanted to let his skill set get rusty. Didn't want to let his name fade away, couldn't let people in the "know" forget that he was _the_ best point man in the business. They had all agreed that they would keep quiet about the fact that they had performed a successful inception, but Arthur had been well known and in demand before the Fischer job, and he intended to keep it that way.

The job Ariadne had set up wasn't illegal... exactly. Not all extractions were. But any time a person snuck into somebody else's mind and picked at their hidden secrets without their permission, it _was_ on morally indefensible ground. Even if one didn't actually steal information and sell it to a third party.

Arthur was honest enough to admit that much of the time he was a thief, and at best he was always an invasive presence. He'd come to terms with that long ago. Mostly he didn't care. As long as the mark wasn't completely innocent, he'd be willing to do whatever it took. And he'd even taken jobs in the past, where the mark _was_ innocent, was a victim; if only because he knew that the extraction was going to happen anyway and if he was involved he could make sure that it happened in the least painful, least violating way possible.

Arthur didn't pretend to be a good man, but he liked to think that at least he wasn't an out and out villain.

Actually, the job that Ariadne currently had set up for them was the opposite of that sort of situation. This time it was the client who was the potential victim, not the mark. A classmate who had somehow heard about extraction -- Ariadne swore she hadn't breathed a word to anyone, and Arthur believed her; the knowledge was out there for those who knew how to look for it -- had also somehow heard that Ariadne had dabbled, and had come to her with a tearful request. It was that more than the money she offered that had drawn Ariadne and Arthur. After all, they didn't _need_ the work. But a college student who was convinced that one of her professors had drugged and raped her.... There was enough of a decent person left in Arthur that he wouldn't have turned this job down, even if Ariadne hadn't asked with a breathy quaver in her normally strong little voice.

Come to think of it, that was probably why Eames was here too. He liked to pretend he was jaded and cynical, liked to play the asshole who didn't care about anyone but himself, but Arthur knew better. He knew of at least four men who were dead now because Eames was a _real_ gentleman, who wouldn't let a woman be harmed on his watch.

It was too late to save Ariadne's classmate, if she had indeed been raped. But they could at least bring her some peace of mind, especially if it turned out not to be true. And if it was... well, they could never bring their findings to court, but Arthur figured that either he or Eames would take care to see that the man got his just desserts. One way or another.

Ariadne was a fierce little lioness when she was righteously angry, and Arthur had to remind her several times that they didn't _know_ that the professor had done it. Her classmate couldn't be certain, which was why she had hired them in the first place.

"And if he wasn't the one that drugged her -- I know this isn't likely, but we have to take every possibility into consideration -- if he didn't drug her and someone else did, he might have thought they were having consensual sex. If they had sex."

Ariadne snorted and folded her arms defensively, but at least she didn't accuse Arthur of being a chauvinistic jerk and sticking up for the man in this situation. She knew that he was only playing devil's advocate because someone had to. And more importantly she knew that he was _right_. She was also aware of the fact that he was going to be just as incensed and a lot more dangerous than her if it did turn out to be true.

Arthur liked it when Ariadne was reasonable. Because she had such a strong will that they might not be able to work together if she was not. And Arthur wanted to make sure he was involved in this extraction. Because it might get ugly, if the girl's accusations were right. And only he and Eames should be exposed to the more abhorrent side of human nature if it became necessary. He didn't make the mistake of thinking that Ariadne was innocent, chaste, or delicate. But she was young and eager and neither Arthur nor Eames wanted to see anything happen to mar her brightness.

"Of course, if he did do it, we'll take care of things," Arthur continued smoothly. Because he was a good point man who had to take every angle into consideration, but he was also a human being, and there was no way was he going to allow a rapist to roam free, likely to strike again, violate another girl. "Right, Eames?"

He glanced at the forger and even as Eames smoothly agreed with him. Arthur found himself overwhelmed with a sense of strangeness, of wrongness, as he had been almost every time he had interacted with Eames during this job.

Ever since he had arrived in Paris and found that Eames had already been here, had already set himself up in the hotel suite Ariadne had rented out for their headquarters. This was a smaller job, an extraction, not an inception that would require them to go three levels deep, with a maze for each level, and so these three rooms were more than sufficient for their needs.

Arthur was still trying to put his finger on what was different, what was off about Eames, but every time he thought that he had it, he took another look and realized he was wrong.

The main thing was that Eames was... _quiet_. It wasn't as though he was loud and disruptive as a norm. He'd speak up if he had something to say, and he wasn't shy about voicing his opinion. And he was certainly paying attention, watching everything they did and listening to everything they said intently. The only thing was that watching was nearly all that he was doing.

For a little while Arthur thought that it might be because of the _reason_ for this extraction. But Eames had talked about it with them relatively dispassionately, had seemed less affected by it than Ariadne was. He'd been upset on the girl's behalf, ready to be as furious as Arthur was ready to be if it turned out to be true, but Arthur hadn't read any lie in his tone when he had discussed it the same way he discussed most jobs.

Arthur wondered whether something had happened to Eames while they had been performing the inception on Robert Fischer, but a quick conversation with Ariadne when Eames was not present hadn't turned up anything. She'd noticed Eames' stillness the same way Arthur had, but was less concerned. In part because she was focusing most of her attention on her classmate, and in part because she didn't know Eames as well as Arthur did.

At any rate, she'd said that the third level had gone much as planned, aside from the little trip she, Cobb, Fischer, and Saito had taken into limbo. Eames had done his part, dreamed up the hospital, stayed on the third level to resuscitate Fischer, and had set up and implemented the kick.

Arthur had thought that maybe Eames was still pissed with Cobb. But Cobb wasn't here. And Arthur and Ariadne had been as much railroaded by Cobb as Eames had been. If Eames was going to bear a grudge against anyone other than Cobb, it should be Yusuf, not Arthur or Ariadne. Well, okay, so Arthur had missed the militarization of Fischer's subconscious, and Ariadne hadn't mentioned how bad things had been with Mal. But Arthur still didn't get the sense that Eames was holding those facts against either of them.

Maybe something had happened _after_ the Fischer job. But Arthur didn't think so. It had only been a couple of months, and he was well aware that Eames had been keeping a low profile, back in Mombasa, where Cobb had found him.

"Maybe he'd just tired," Ariadne had suggested, but then Eames had let himself into the suite before Arthur could tell her how unlikely that was. As if she couldn't see the sharpness of Eames' expression as he listened to them plan, as though she hadn't seen the bright flash of those dark grey eyes under heavy lids. Eames was many things right now, all of them confusing, but he was not tired.

So Arthur was left with no concrete ideas, and Eames was giving nothing away. It wasn't anything Arthur could just out and out ask about. After all, it hadn't yet affected the job, or the team's interactions.

And so technically it was none of Arthur's business. And he wasn't willing yet to make it personal.

+++

The plan was for them to take the professor under, dreaming him into the same bar that Ariadne's classmate had been drugged in. Then Eames would forge a pretty female college student to distract the mark and also to see how he interacted with "her", while Arthur, at the same time, tried to perform an extraction. That last would be done by Cobb if he deigned to join them, which was part of why Arthur was pushing him so hard to come. Ariadne had offered to be the one to approach the professor, but both the men had nixed that idea almost before it had left her lips, with so much passion that she hadn't brought it up again.

Ariadne designed the dream for them, teaching it to Arthur. There was no way that either of them was letting her join them in the extraction; Arthur couldn't trust that the professor's projections would leave her alone if the man actually was a rapist. Once again, she tried to argue and they shot her down vehemently.

The fact that Eames was going to be putting himself into such a potentially hazardous position while Arthur was supposed to be both the dreamer and the extractor was what finally decided Cobb.

"Just give me four days to get the kids settled with their grandmother and get a flight out there," he told Arthur on the phone, and that easily it was decided.

Now they just had to wait. Arthur was relieved, and he was looking forward to seeing Cobb again, as was Ariadne. Eames didn't seem to care one way or the other, but he didn't complain about the delay, so Arthur wondered if he hadn't been a bit concerned as well.

Although, if he was he didn't show it. He didn't show... much of anything. This wasn't normal behavior, but it wasn't so unusual that Arthur felt comfortable asking Eames about it.

Ariadne wasn't thrilled with the delay, but she understood the need, and she would rather they did this safely. Both men were essentially doing this as a favor to her -- even though the pay was pretty good for a private citizen and not a corporation -- and so she would feel more than partially to blame if anything happened to either of them.

"Who would have thought that plundering the mind of a college professor could be so dangerous," Eames said dryly, as they sat about the day after Cobb had promised to come. The man wouldn't even be leaving the States for a couple of days yet, and the time seemed to stretch on interminably ahead of them.

"Eames, be serious." Arthur didn't really mean it; it was more a kneejerk reaction than a reasoned response.

"I'm always serious on a job," Eames said, his tone silken, his voice smooth over the emotional equivalent of a layer of broken glass. Arthur felt the short hairs at his nape prickle, knew that he was going to have to tread lightly. In fact, he probably shouldn't have said anything at all... but it was too late for that.

"I know you are," he replied, keeping his voice carefully neutral. And he did know that. For all he sometimes drove Arthur to distraction, for all he sometimes seemed slipshod and haphazard in his methods, Eames was always focused and he always delivered in the end, even if his methods might seem a little roundabout at the time.

"Arthur didn't mean it, Eames," Ariadne put in. And normally Arthur would have been irked at her for speaking for him, for assigning him motivations, but in this case she was right, and her voice seemed to sooth Eames' ruffled feathers. He shifted his fierce gaze from Arthur to the window, and Arthur and Ariadne exchanged a helpless glance.

Eames _was_ different, and yet neither of them could figure out how or why. And it wasn't enough to call him on it, but it was enough to drive Arthur crazy trying to work it out.

Things couldn't go on this way. At least now he had three and a half days to figure it out, while they waited for Cobb.

There was no way Arthur was just going to let this go. Even if it was none of his business.

***

They agreed to take the next couple of days off. There wasn't anything more they could do; the plan was already in place, they were set up to put it into motion at any point, and now all they needed was for Cobb to arrive and get up to date. Arthur had already sent him a dossier by registered mail, so that should hopefully take a day or less.

Ariadne offered to take Arthur sightseeing, but he'd been to Paris before, many times. And, besides, she had classes.

Eames excused himself before the other two had even finished hashing that out, and Ariadne gave Arthur a sharp look.

"You should talk to him," she said, almost before the suite door had closed behind Eames.

Arthur arched a brow. "And what would I say? 'Eames, why are you being so serious lately'? You saw how he reacted. Without you there, he might well try to take my head off."

Ariadne bit her lip and frowned. "True. But you can't just let this go on. You can't let _him_ go on like this."

"And it's my business how?"

"Well, you guys are friends--"

"We're not friends," Arthur interrupted incredulously. "Where did you get that idea?"

Ariadne gave a look that he could only interpret as _disappointed_. "You're the closest thing Eames has to a friend, Arthur. It's up to you."

"What?" Arthur stared at her. "When did this happen? We're co-workers, nothing more. And since when did you know whether or not Eames has friends?"

Ariadne sighed and shook her head, as though it was _Arthur_ who was being difficult. "We talked, you know. During the Fischer job. Eames spent most of his time with Cobb and I was usually with you, but there was one night where Eames got drunk and came back to the warehouse when I was working there late. He seemed to need someone to talk to, so we talked until he fell asleep in one of the chairs."

"Did he make a pass at you?" Arthur asked sharply. Why was _that_ his first concern? And why did the thought send a lick of jealousy surging through him? And who exactly was he jealous over; Ariadne or Eames?

Well, okay, he kind of knew the answer to that. He just didn't want to think about it too closely.

Ariadne gave him a particularly offensive look of incredulity. "At me? Arthur, in case you're _blind_ , I'll tell you right now that I'm entirely the wrong gender for Eames to be interested in."

Arthur blinked, but had to admit that he'd wondered, once or twice. And not just because of the pink silk shirts and matching socks.

"So is that one of the things you talked about?"

"Yeah." Ariadne smiled a little sheepishly. "I may have taken advantage of his tendency to run at the mouth to find out some things about him that I'd been wondering."

"You snooped," Arthur said flatly. He wasn't judging Ariadne. It wasn't his place to do so; he couldn't have said he might not have done the same thing if he'd been in her position. Well, he probably wouldn't have. But he probably would have _wanted_ to.

"I did," she admitted, and to her credit she didn't sound ashamed of that fact in the slightest. "I wanted to know more about him. He was such a cipher, such a mystery. He talks plenty but he never says anything personal, and I was curious. Besides, he wanted to talk as much as I wanted to listen. And... and he's _lonely_ , Arthur."

"What?" That had been unexpected.

Ariadne shook her head, dark curls bobbing on her shoulders. "He didn't tell me so in as many words, but I could tell. I tried to quiz him about you, but, well, _you_ were the only thing he _wouldn't_ talk about. He told me one thing, though, about you guys. He told me that you were the closest thing he had to a friend. So I'm not just guessing about that. It's actually a fact. Eames _told_ me so."

Arthur was silent, processing this. If it was true... and it kind of had to be, right? Well, if it was true, then that was really sad. Not that Arthur was exactly Mr. Popularity himself. But he had people in his life he would call friends. Mainly Cobb and Ariadne, true, but there had been and would be others....

Did he think of Eames as a friend? Not really. The man drove him crazy, sometimes. Often on purpose, or so it seemed to Arthur. But then, aside from Arthur's irritated reactions, what Eames did and said to provoke him... well, it was never mean spirited. Arthur could admit to that. And Eames probably wouldn't provoke him like that if Arthur _didn't_ react. Still... friends?

"You should go and talk to him," Ariadne reiterated.

Arthur sighed. Maybe Ariadne was right. Even if Arthur didn't consider Eames a friend, Eames evidently thought of him as one. This didn't place any sense of obligation on him... but he kind of found that he felt one anyway.

"I'll think about it," he told Ariadne. Which was as far as he was willing to go, right now.

"Thank you," she said simply, smiling and patting him on the shoulder. "But if you do, do it for him, not for me, okay?"

Arthur nodded absently, already thinking. Because it made a difference, Ariadne was right, and if he _did_ go to the man, it should be for Eames or for Arthur himself.

 _If_ he did.

***

He did. Go to talk to Eames, that was. Almost within an hour of finishing his conversation with Ariadne. Well, he _went_ to talk to Eames. But he only got as far as the hallway outside Eames' hotel room door, stuck there, because no amount of knocking raised the other man.

Arthur knew that Eames was in. He'd quizzed the concierge on his way up, and Eames had gone to his room less than half an hour before Arthur arrived and he hadn't left.

Of course, he might have exited by the window, but why would he have done anything like that? They were all being open about their comings and goings. So far they had done nothing illegal and none of them had anything to hide. Eames was a grown man, and he could do as he liked. If he wanted to leave his hotel room, it was to be assumed that he would walk out of the building like any normal human being.

Arthur felt a little odd breaking into Eames' hotel room. And yet he couldn't bang on the door any further without arousing the interest and suspicions of the hotel staff. When Arthur tried calling the man's cell, he could hear it ringing in the room, but there was no answer. Even if Eames had been napping or bathing, he ought to have answered either the door or the phone by now. Or at least yelled out for Arthur to quit it.

Arthur wasn't _worried_ , he told himself, as he picked the lock with nimble fingers. But they needed Eames for this job, and he had to make sure that the forger was okay.

Arthur felt a little foolish when he entered the room, quietly, carefully, ready to whip out his sidearm, and discovered that Eames was indeed in residence, lying on his bed and hooked up to a PASIV device.

That would explain the lack of response. Arthur hadn't known that Eames had a PASIV device of his own, but he hadn't thought he _didn't_ , and it would only make sense that he might make use of his down time to go under and get in some practice.

Arthur felt a little less foolish, however, and a little more worried, when he crossed to peer at the device, and saw the stark red numbers on the LED display.

It was set for twelve hours.

Arthur scowled fiercely. How could Eames in good conscious go under for that long? That would be _almost a week_ in dream time. Not to mention, that was twelve hours in real time when he wouldn't available if they needed him, twelve hours during which he was completely vulnerable, twelve hours in which he wouldn't be eating or drinking anything....

Arthur took a closer look at Eames. He noticed, now, that the man's features seemed sharper than he remembered from the Fischer job. Previously, he'd put this down to the intense, focused expressions Eames had been sporting. But now, with Eames relaxed in sleep, his face lax, when Arthur could look at him closely without risking being caught staring, Arthur could see that there was a noticeably more pronounced cut to Eames' cheekbones and jaw, that his eyes were less puffy and more sunken than Arthur remembered them being. It wasn't a huge difference, which was why he hadn't noticed it before, seeing only what he _expected_ to see, but he could tell now. And he wondered when and how that had happened.

Well, it had obviously happened during the past two months or so, since the Fischer job. And it had happened while Eames was under, if he did this regularly. So that covered the "when" and the "how". What Arthur _really_ needed was the "why".

There was only one way to do that, he thought. Waiting out the twelve hours and then asking Eames wasn't an option. Arthur didn't have the patience and he didn't trust that Eames would tell him the truth.

So there was only one thing to do. Arthur was in the business of extraction for a reason. And not just because it paid the bills and gave him a reason to dive into the dream-share on a regular basis. It was also because he was _good_ at it. He might not be as skilled at the actual act of extraction as Cobb, but he was certainly no slouch. And he wasn't about to spend the next twelve hours with his head full of questions that only Eames could answer. Not when he could get inside _Eames'_ head and hopefully get some answers.

He set his timer for an hour, though. Whatever Eames was doing in his dream, Arthur didn't want to have to wait out the whole time; twelve hours of dream time should be plenty.

Unspooling a second infusion line, Arthur made quick work of rolling up one sleeve and seating himself on the floor, leaning back against the bed. He was going to be stiff when he roused, he already knew, but there was nowhere else for him to sit. The PASIV case was resting on the room's only chair, and he didn't dare to disturb it. Joining Eames on the bed wasn't an option.

Taking a deep breath and trying to relax the tension between his shoulders, Arthur depressed the infusion activator, and prepared to follow Eames into his dream.

***

It was a sunny day, the light flowing through the city street like golden honey, almost thick enough to have a flavor.

Arthur had been in many different dreams, had felt many different environments created by many different people. He'd even been in Eames' dreams before, for all he'd stayed behind during the Fischer job while the others went down to the third level. Normally a good dream was largely indistinguishable from reality -- at least while _in_ the dream. That wasn't so much the sign of a talented dreamer; it was more indicative of a lack of imagination. The fact was that this was generally a desirable outcome, since there was usually a mark that was supposed to be fooled.

Here, in Eames' personal dream, everything was warm and sweet, so much better than reality. Arthur felt all the tension he had brought into the dream-share with him melt away, dissolving in the gold-glowing sunlight. It just _felt_ peaceful.

He looked around. Not London, not Paris, not Kenya, and nowhere in the States, though he thought he saw bits of all these places and more in the street surrounding him, along with shades of Italy, Greece, and perhaps some Switzerland. It should have looked discordant, off, but it was so seamless that Arthur felt he had been here many times before.

Arthur hadn't really known what to expect, but whatever it had been, it hadn't been this. No overcast sky or rain, no narrow streets, no public buildings older than the United States of America itself. Nothing that Arthur would have thought he'd see if Eames was dreaming about "home".

And yet, somehow, this place did feel like _home_. Arthur was perfectly at ease here, even though he was an intruder into the dream. And the dream around him didn't seem to mind him being there.

There was no one on the streets, and yet the city didn't feel deserted. It didn't seem as though there was anything missing. It felt as though the dream city was... waiting. Waiting for what, Arthur didn't know, but he got the feeling that it had been waiting for _him_. Which was just patently ridiculous, because there was no way that Eames could have known that Arthur would break into his hotel room and invade his dream.

Arthur was glad to know that Eames wasn't building from memory -- at least not so far as he could tell -- but he still wondered what the man was doing here, in the dream-share for _twelve hours_. That meant _six days_ in dream time.

Since standing here wasn't doing him any good, Arthur picked a direction, completely at random, and started walking. There were brightly colored cars parked along the curbs, and he could see people inside the shops that he passed, even if the sidewalks were still bare, even if there were no vehicles in motion on the streets. He didn't enter any of the buildings, though. He wasn't exactly looking for Eames, but he wasn't quite sure he was ready to share this golden world; not even with the projections that lived and worked here.

He changed his mind when he walked past a coffee shop -- privately owned, not a Starbucks -- and glanced in the window to see a dark-haired girl behind the counter who was just too familiar to pass by.

It was, in fact, Ariadne. Tending the bar and passing out espressos with a bright smile, wearing a crisp white shirt and black apron, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, except for bangs that she didn't actually have and a few strands framing her flushed cheeks that were more curly than her hair was in reality.

Arthur pushed the door open, setting a cheery bell tinkling. No one so much as glanced at him, which he thought was strange. There were a half dozen projections in the coffee shop, and they really ought to have taken note of his presence. At least in passing, like normal people would have done, if not recognizing him as an invader in the dream. But most of them didn't so much as glance away from their conversations, laptops, books, drinks....

Ariadne, however, looked directly at him, her smile growing wider, brighter. "Arthur!" she cried out happily.

"Hi, Ariadne," he greeted, hoping that this was indeed her name in the dream, that Eames hadn't made any strange changes. As he neared the counter, he could see that her nametag _did_ say "Ariadne", which was a relief.

"I thought you were at home with Eames," she said, tilting her head, her eyes bright, her ponytail bobbing. "Is he here?" She glanced over his shoulder, frowning faintly when she saw that he was alone.

Arthur blinked. Maybe he shouldn't have been startled by this, but he was. Despite Ariadne in the waking world having just told him that Eames considered him a friend, despite seeing a projection of Ariadne _here_ , he hadn't expected that there might be a projection of _him_ wandering around.

Ariadne's lips pursed in a moue more girlish than any expression he'd ever seen her wearing in reality. "Oh, Arthur, you've slicked your hair back again," she chided. "I liked it the way you were wearing it."

"I--" He really didn't know what to say. He didn't want to alert her to the fact that he didn't belong here, but he didn't know his place. Or, well, his projection's place. Not well enough to fake it.

"Seriously," she said, moving to make a three-pump, three shot hazelnut latte, exactly the same one that Arthur ordered every time he got something more fancy than black coffee in reality, "You and Eames didn't fight again, did you?"

"No." Arthur at least knew the correct answer to that question. He felt a moment of worry, that Eames' projection of him might walk in the door and throw a wrench in the whole scenario, but he comforted himself with the thought that Ariadne hadn't expected to see him, so presumably his projection wouldn't be showing up equally unexpectedly.

"You really should give him a chance, Arthur," Ariadne told him, giving him a wide-eyed look. It was so strange. It was like Ariadne only not. Eames had her features down perfectly, and her physical movements. Arthur could almost, _almost_ have felt that he really was being served a latte by the young architect.... And yet she was softer, more feminine than she was in reality. Not to the point that his brain felt there was anything terribly amiss. But it _was_ noticeable.

It was as though Eames saw Ariadne as being more girlish than she actually was. Arthur began to feel more than a bit of curiosity as to what _his_ projection looked like, acted like. Well, Ariadne had already said something about his hair; apparently his projection did not wear it slicked back. Which thought made Arthur wince.

"What do you mean by that?" he prompted, sipping his latte. It was perfect, which hardly surprised him. For one thing, this was a dream. And for another, it had been made by Ariadne. As though she could do anything by halves, even when she was only a projection.

He hoped that if they were talking about a subject she had spoken with his projection about before, that Eames had Arthur down as well as he had Ariadne, and that his projection was as incisive and yet oblique as Eames had occasionally accused the real Arthur of being.

And that seemed a safe enough bet. Ariadne wrinkled her nose at him -- again, an expression that suited her pretty face but not something she did in reality -- and shook her head. "Oh, Arthur. You're so stubborn. You _know_ how he feels about you. You're just lucky he's so patient."

Arthur took a long, intent drink of his latte, his brain racing. He hadn't really come into Eames' dream to perform an extraction, hadn't wanted to be _that_ invasive, even if he'd given it a passing thought, and yet he had somehow inadvertently stumbled into some knowledge that Eames probably would not have wanted him to hear.

And what knowledge it was. Just an hour or so previously, Ariadne -- the real Ariadne, in the waking world -- had told him that Eames considered him a friend, which had been news to him. Now the projection of Ariadne seemed to be hinting at something _more_.

Or maybe not. Maybe Arthur was reading too much into it.

"I'm glad you're at least willing to be friends with him now," Ariadne continued, as though Arthur's silence wasn't incredibly awkward. Although this did seem to be proof that she had meant something _more_ when she had told Arthur he should give Eames a chance earlier. "He was so lonely when he first started coming here. And so were you, even if you didn't want to admit it."

She gave him a defiant look, but Arthur was too busy boggling to say anything. He certainly wasn't going to argue, when he had no idea what she was talking about.

Oh, he could make some good guesses. He wasn't the best in the underworld of extraction for no reason.

Eames had built himself a cozy little world here, in his own private little dream-share. And it didn't sound as though this was the first time he had entered it. It seemed that this projection of Ariadne had known him, had known both of them -- though, in Arthur's case, his projection -- for quite a while.

This projection of Ariadne might be a college student, but Arthur doubted she was a headstrong architect in the dream-share, especially seeing as she was working as a barista in a nice little coffee shop that Eames and his projection of Arthur evidently frequented.

Arthur wondered what his projection did; if he was employed the way Ariadne's was. He also wondered what other projections Eames might have in here. If maybe there was a Yusuf working in a pharmacy, if a more benign Mal Cobb might be wandering gracefully through the city streets, perhaps with her husband and children, perhaps alone. He also kind of wondered if the projections enjoying their coffees in this shop were based off of people that Eames had known and worked with in the past.

"I'm not lonely," he protested automatically, realizing a moment after he spoke the words that they might have been a mistake.

But Ariadne only smiled at him fondly. "Well, no, not anymore. You and Eames are good for each other."

Arthur had no idea what he could say to that, but at this point a pretty blonde that Arthur recognized as being Eames' favorite "distraction" came up to the counter, and Ariadne bounced over to serve her with a cheerful, "Hi, Talulah!"

Arthur took note of the fact that the blonde projection looked a lot less plastic when she was wearing a loose, plain, heather grey turtleneck and jeans, her hair gathered in a fraying french braid. In fact, when she smiled at Ariadne, her face virtually free of make-up, she was downright beautiful.

Arthur beat a quick retreat out of the coffee shop, clutching his latte. It had been strange, seeing that sharply sculpted face without the overwhelming knowledge that Eames' consciousness was behind it. Although, seeing her here like this had largely verified a suspicion Arthur had long harbored; that Eames had modeled her after someone he had once known. That was the most obvious supposition, anyway; there was an outside chance that she was an entirely original creation. Arthur would never accuse Eames of lacking imagination.

It wasn't until he was almost a block away that Arthur realized he hadn't paid for his latte. But Ariadne hadn't seemed to mind. This was a dream, so maybe it didn't matter. Or maybe she would add it to a tab Arthur's projection was running.

At any rate, Arthur had finished his drink and, just in time, there was a handy recycling can on the corner. He was a little surprised by this fact -- if anything, he'd have expected a regular garbage bin, didn't think Eames was the sort to care about the environment, even subconsciously -- but he dropped the empty cup in smoothly and paused a moment to get his bearings.

So far he'd been wandering aimlessly. Or at least mostly. He'd been careful not to backtrack, but that had been about the extent of it. Once out of the coffee shop he hadn't felt any desire to enter another store, nor had he seen any familiar faces inside the buildings. The empty sidewalks, instead of seeming lonely or eerie, were pleasant to have all to himself.

But he was here to get answers. And even though he had no idea how he was going to go about doing so, he was feeling the need to get on it. Granted, he had a good eleven hours of dream time yet, but he'd already wasted nearly an hour, and Arthur hated wasting time.

The street he was on looked very similar to the one where he had found the coffee shop, and he wondered exactly how large this dream city was, how large the dream _itself_ was, whether Eames had set it up as a maze, or if there was an edge to it, if one walked far enough in one direction. That wasn't really his concern, though. What he needed to do was find Eames.

And it sounded from what Ariadne had said, that if he found Eames he would also find Eames' projection of himself. He was both curious and trepidatious at the idea of this encounter. Although, really, he was sort of hoping that he could get a look at both of them without their seeing him.

He just hadn't the slightest idea how to go about that.

It was a strange sensation for Arthur, feeling at a loss.

Fortuitously, almost deliberately -- but this was Eames' dream, not Arthur's -- the door to an apartment building just a short way up the block opened, and the very two he had just been thinking about emerged.

Arthur very quickly but very carefully stepped into a store front, which hid him almost entirely from view while at the same time allowing him a good look at Eames and the projection of Arthur that Eames had dreamed up. He only hoped that they weren't headed in his direction, because then it wouldn't be so easy to hide. The store he had sheltered in front of actually wasn't open, so he wouldn't be able to slip inside.

He could see right off what the projection of Ariadne had meant. The dream Arthur was wearing his hair loose, and in fact it was several inches longer than Arthur ever allowed his own to grow. Eames had the wild curls down, and the slight auburn sheen Arthur's black hair took on in the warm sunlight. Arthur shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. To the best of his knowledge, Eames had never seen him with his hair loose.

What also surprised him, in a different way, was the fact that the projection of him was dressed just as well as he dressed in reality, that Eames hadn't taken the opportunity to put him in jeans and a teeshirt or paisley or anything. In fact, Arthur recognized the pale blue shirt his projection was wearing as one he'd had a couple of years ago, before losing it during some job or other. And he couldn't be sure, but he thought that the dark slacks his projection had on were the same pair he'd worn to their meeting in the suite a day or two ago.

It made him feel a little strange, realizing that Eames had paid so much attention to his clothing. Even if the wardrobe was being provided on a completely subconscious level, it meant that Eames _had_ seen and had noticed.

Eames himself was wearing a dress shirt that Arthur remembered him sporting during the Fischer job, an attractive purple button-up with thin lines of brighter color threaded through it, along with a pair of grey slacks. His sleeves were rolled up and his collar was unbuttoned.

He looked... good. More at ease than Arthur was used to seeing him; especially lately. He smiled at the projection of Arthur, his crooked front teeth flashing white and less-white in the golden sunlight, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His hair was tousled, not as flyaway as faux-Arthur's, but more so than he wore it in reality.

All this Arthur caught in an instant, then the two men -- one the dreamer and one a dream -- turned and walked away from where Arthur was hidden. Eames didn't touch the projection of Arthur, but they walked so closely that their upper arms brushed from time to time, and Arthur saw Eames turn his head to shoot the projection a quick grin, his profile sharp and clean in the glowing sun.

Then they were gone, around a corner, and Arthur was left to try to decide what to do. He didn't want to confront Eames about any of this, largely because he wasn't sure yet what was going on. Well, and add to that the fact that he had broken into Eames' hotel room, topside, and invited himself into this dream. It wasn't a very morally defensible action. Those in the dream-share had protocols and practices; there were certain understandings and it was just plain bad manners to barge into someone's dream uninvited. Even though Arthur had done it out of concern, due to the fact that Eames had gone under for _twelve hours_ , essentially rendering himself unreachable during a job for that period of time, he highly doubted Eames would see this as anything other than a violation. Or at the very least, incredibly rude.

There was a sun in the sky, and it was lowering toward the horizon. Arthur wasn't very surprised. What was the point of going under for what amounted to nearly a week if there were no days or nights?

Assuming that Eames and his doppelganger had gone out for dinner or some such, Arthur contemplated the apartment building they had emerged from.

It was a nice structure, open and airy. Arthur squinted, pretty sure that he recognized one of his own jackets draped over the balcony railing on the second floor. His fingers twitched, but then he reminded himself that it wasn't _his_ jacket -- it belonged to the projection of him that Eames had dreamed up. Even without a cloud in the sky, Arthur wouldn't have been so careless as to leave an article of clothing out like that, but evidently his projection was more easygoing.

Well, that was hardly surprising. It was Eames' dream, after all. And Arthur was well aware that Eames thought he took _everything_ too seriously. That opinion, in addition to seeing the way his projection had been wearing his hair, led Arthur to the conclusion that Eames had managed to render his projection of Arthur more laid back.

This might have been a slow progression, though, Arthur thought. The projection of Ariadne had recognized Arthur's slicked back hairstyle as one that his projection had used to wear. And from what she had said, it sounded as though the projection of Arthur hadn't been naturally amicable toward Eames. In fact, it had sounded as though Eames had been working at building some sort of relationship with his projection of Arthur for a while.

Which made a strange sort of sense if this projection had emerged from Eames' subconscious, rather than being a conscious creation.

It suddenly occurred to Arthur to wonder _how often_ Eames had gone under for twelve hours of real time, for six days in dream time, during the period after the Fischer job.... Or maybe even before; though he instinctively thought not.

More than that, though, he wondered _why_. But he couldn't think of any way to get the truth of that, at least not right this instant, so he was going to settle for doing some snooping.

For now. He still had about eleven hours left in this dream... unless Eames' projections started to turn against him before then. So far they hadn't shown any sign of doing so, but so far he'd only interacted with the projection of Ariadne, and she had thought that Arthur was the projection of himself that she already knew.

Arthur gave it a moment's thought. He was wearing a white shirt and a brown sweater vest, with dark brown slacks. Stripping off the vest tousled his hair, and then he used his fingers to muss it further. It didn't match his projection's exactly, but it was close, and any projections seeing him wouldn't expect him to be the _real_ Arthur, so hopefully they wouldn't notice the difference.

He hoped that if anyone saw him go into the apartment building, they would think that he was his projection, back for some reason. After all, he had already fooled the projection of Ariadne without even trying. The shirt was the wrong color, but it only took him a moment's concentration to shift it from white to pale blue. He might not be adept at forging, but something like that was simple enough, especially when one was not worried about being mobbed by an angry subconscious.

Arthur was glad he'd taken the time to make an effort at matching his look to his projection's when he walked through the door of the apartment building and found that there was a neatly uniformed security guard seated at a desk in the entryway. The man looked familiar, middle-aged and stocky, but Arthur couldn't place him.

"Forget something?" the guard asked Arthur cheerfully, raising bushy brows.

"Yeah," Arthur replied, giving him a nod and a small smile. This must have been the right response, because the projection went back to his magazine without so much as an extra blink.

There was an "Out of Order" sign on the elevator door, so Arthur took the stairs. The walls were a cheerful cream color and the steps were well worn wood. There was a potted plant in the landing. Arthur arched a brow, but this was an apartment building created by Eames, so he wasn't too surprised. A little bit surprised, but not very.

He assumed that the only door on the second floor was the apartment he was looking for. As he picked the lock he hoped vaguely that Eames didn't have an alarm system wired into the place. It seemed unlikely, though. They were in Eames' dream; it seemed a largely pleasant place. Which only made sense, considering that it seemed to be some kind of a retreat for the man.

No alarms sounded when he cracked the door open and entered the apartment, which he took as a good sign.

The apartment was both what he had expected and yet not. It was wide and airy, with hardwood floors and perfectly matched furniture, upholstered in a rich taupe suede. The walls in here were cream colored as well, with strategically placed artwork and several bookshelves filled with books. Although he wanted to get a better feel for the entire place, Arthur found himself irresistibly drawn to one of the closer shelves, wondering what sorts of books Eames kept inside his dream, what library had been spawned from his subconscious.

It was a hodge-podge, he discovered, of first edition poetry and plays, leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare, Doyle, and Poe, mixed in with lurid penny detective novels, and almost an entire shelf of "Babar" and "Tin Tin" picture books in the original French.

Somehow, none of this surprised Arthur. He found himself smiling softly, then he shook his head and went off to explore the rest of the apartment. He wasn't going to be able to spend long here -- didn't want to take the chance of still being here when Eames and his projection of Arthur returned -- but he wasn't ready to leave yet.

The apartment was somewhere that Arthur would not have minded living, he had to admit. There were expensive throw rugs on the floor, a hand-made afghan on the sofa, and quite a few pieces of clothing scattered about. Arthur thought that the shirts, jackets, and, yes, one pair of pants, belonged to both himself and Eames, though he couldn't be absolutely sure.

He really hoped that they weren't tossed about due to fits of passion.... Because that would just be creepy. And he might have to punch Eames in the face for getting it on with his projection.

So far, though, he was willing to give Eames the benefit of the doubt. He didn't _think_ that Eames was perverted enough to have sex with a projection of one of his colleagues. But then, he wasn't sure exactly how much he did know about Eames. He'd thought he'd had a pretty good handle on him. But after the Fischer job and with the way the man had been behaving during their current job, he was beginning to wonder just how much he did know.

Perhaps nothing at all.

Well, that was perhaps a little fatalistic. Arthur hadn't found anything in this dream world yet that had truly shocked him.... Other than the fact of this place existing at all, the fact that Eames had been willing to hook himself up to a PASIV device for twelve hours at a time. Granted, they weren't any of them expecting to be able to do anything until Cobb arrived, and it had been evening headed into night. But Eames should _know_ better than to render himself unavailable, not to mention completely _vulnerable_ , for that long a period of time during a job.

Arthur took a quick look at the kitchen. It was open, not separated from the living room area by any walls, though it was one step raised from the rest of the apartment. There was a small dining nook to one side, and a pantry to the other. Arthur could see some of his favorite foods on the shelves, and it gave him a funny feeling. But he had already known from the details of the clothing and the realism of his projection, how much attention Eames really did pay to him.

He glanced through the open curtains, at the little balcony off of the main living area. It had a wrought iron table and chairs, a potted plant, and he thought there might be a barbecue grill in one corner, but he was starting to get anxious about the passage of time. Granted, it might be hours before Eames and the projection of Arthur returned, but what if it wasn't? Also, he didn't want the security guard downstairs to get suspicious.

He'd come in here out of curiosity, but he wasn't ready to confront Eames about it. Not without a far better idea of what this was and why Eames was doing it.

He took note of the windows on the building directly across the way. They were empty, no blinds, no curtains. That might prove useful.

The apartment had one bathroom, and it was spotless. Arthur was a little startled, after the controlled chaos in the living area. It was a nice, large bathroom, with a clawed tub and a shower stall, both of which were some distance from the toilet.

"Dream a little bigger, indeed," Arthur murmured, grinning despite himself. He had to admit that if he was dreaming up his perfect home, he'd make sure that the bathroom was just the way he wanted. And it probably wouldn't be much different than this.

All that this left him to explore were the bedrooms. And that _was_ plural; there were two bedrooms. Arthur felt as though this was the biggest surprise in the apartment.

Because it was obvious which bedroom was Eames', and which one belonged to his projection of Arthur. Arthur had been virtually certain that they'd have been sharing a room. Had expected that there would only be one bedroom with one bed, or that the second bedroom would be an unused guest room.

But, no. One room was very obviously Arthur's. And that was the frightening part. _It was Arthur's_. Very close to how his own bedroom looked, in his home in reality. And to the best of his knowledge, Eames had never been in his house. Arthur certainly hadn't invited him in. Hadn't been aware that Eames knew of the place's existence. No one was supposed to know of it, not even Cobb, who Arthur trusted implicitly, outside the dream-share.

But there was Arthur's bed. His antique roll top desk. The lamp that Mal had given him. And there was a wardrobe that he had sold the year before, proving that wherever Eames had gotten his information on Arthur's living space from, it was a little out of date.

Unless he'd been coming under like this for more than a year. But Arthur didn't believe that. Someone would have noticed something off during the Fischer job. _He_ would have noticed something off during the Fischer job.

"Arthur's" room was something of a mess, and that was pretty close to reality. Arthur kept everything neat and as perfectly organized as possible while he was working, but he was hardly such a tight ass at home. He wasn't sloppy, by any stretch of the imagination. Dirty cups and bowls went in the sink immediately, even if they had only held coffee. Empty beverage containers went in the recycling bin. But clothing.... Well, Arthur was careful not to wear anything wrinkled, to make sure that nothing got stained, but before his clothing _was_ laundered, when it was soiled, sometimes it would find itself draped over a chair or even dropped on the floor if he was really exhausted. And it looked as though Eames' projection of him had the same habit. There were stacks of unruly paper on the desk, and a paperback beside them that was lying open, pages down, its spine dented. Arthur had to admit, to his shame, that he had in the past treated books with similar disregard.

This was all a little creepy, and Arthur wondered whether Eames had been spying on him, or if he just had a very good idea of Arthur's ways and a frighteningly accurate imagination. Both possibilities were equally disturbing, in their own ways.

Eames' room, Arthur only peeked in passingly. Granted, Eames was the one who was cohabitating with a projection of Arthur, who had a near-perfect replica of Arthur's real bedroom in his apartment, but Arthur still felt a little intrusive. The fact that there were elements of his own life in this dream notwithstanding, it was _not_ his dream, and he had _not_ been invited. He had barged into Eames' personal dream and broken into his apartment.

Eames' room was actually less of a mess than Arthur's, with a huge bed that looked remarkably comfortable, the bedcovers in a heap, some of them on the floor. There were more bookshelves in here, and what looked like art supplies piled atop a desk without a chair.

With one last look around the place, thinking how really incredibly cozy and homelike it was, Arthur departed. The security guard gave him another smile and a nod on his way out, and then he was loose in the empty city streets again, and still had at least ten more hours in the dreamshare before he roused.

Now he needed to decide what he was going to do next.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Fischer job, some of the former team come together once again, but there is something off about Eames. Can Arthur and Ariadne find out what's going on and can Arthur figure out how to fix it?

It actually didn't take that much thought. The first thing Arthur did was walk briskly in the opposite direction that Eames and the projection of himself had gone. He hoped that the dream wasn't actually small, wasn't a maze that circled in on itself, because he was really trying not to run into Eames. He'd already decided he wasn't ready to confront Eames about this. Not until he had a better idea what it _was_ , and, even more importantly, _why_.

Fortunately, he found exactly what he was looking for, in under half an hour.

A camera shop, and there was a projection that he thought he recognized as being a man named... Folger? Bolger? Anyway, Arthur was certain of the fact that this projection was based off of a point man in the underground world of the dream-share, who Eames had worked with before. Arthur knew _of_ him, but had never worked with him, due to them both being point men.

So it was hardly unexpected when he found that not only were there plenty of cameras in this shop, but also all kinds of other surveillance equipment.

This fact brought a broad grin to his face. That was going to come in _handy_.

"Hallo there," the clerk greeted, giving him a vague smile. Like the security guard in the apartment building, this projection was reading. He had his nose in an old, tatty book instead of a magazine, however, and there were a pair of reading glasses resting low on his rather bulbous nose.

Unlike Ariadne in the coffee shop, this projection didn't seem to know Arthur, didn't call him by name. Evidently his projection needed coffee but not cameras. Or maybe Folger, Bolger, whatever, was less gregarious than Ariadne.

Arthur browsed for a bit, and when it was obvious that he knew what he wanted, the clerk went back to his book. That wasn't exactly great customer service, but Arthur had always hated pushy sale clerks. And, besides, this shop probably saw very little custom. The streets of Eames' dream city were still empty, even though the shops and stores were staffed. Arthur really wondered what that said about the dream, and about Eames. Usually it took an effort to keep the projections out of any given dream. Yusuf had had trouble with that when he had first begun crafting his level of dreaming on the Fischer job.

Once he had what he needed, Arthur made his purchase. He had money in his wallet, of course, which he could have used to pay Ariadne. But that was then. And now he was walking out of the camera shop with two large paper bags full of equipment.

Backtracking was a simple enough matter; he had a good sense of direction and the dream city seemed completely stable. Once he was back, Arthur made his way into the building across the street from Eames' apartment with no trouble. There wasn't anyone on the street to catch him at it, and he could be sure that the security guard wasn't able to see this far.

The building was empty, as Arthur had suspected it would be. He smiled faintly to himself as he made his way to the second floor. It looked as though this was supposed to be an office building, but there was no sign that it had ever been used. Everything still looked fresh, no wear, very little dust. Arthur wasn't sure whether this was because the dream world was still fairly new or whether it was because Eames hadn't bothered much with realism in a place that was only background... though he kind of suspected it _wasn't_ the latter. Eames' dream world seemed very carefully crafted and deliberate. He was pretty sure that even the lack of projections filling the streets was a conscious decision on Eames' part.

Arthur made his way to the room directly facing the apartment, then chose his position carefully. He could see into most the living area through the balcony door, and the large dining nook windows gave him a view of nearly the whole kitchen this way. Granted, he wouldn't be able to see into the bedrooms, but if he remembered right, the curtains had been pulled to in both of them.

Anyway, if he felt the need to look into the bedrooms, he could move to the other side of the apartment building. Right now he was more concerned with being able to observe Eames and the projection of himself when they got home.

 _Home_. God, that was weird. As weird as seeing Eames hook himself up to a PASIV device for twelve hours and build himself a dream world where he was... evidently living with a projection of Arthur but not sleeping with him? In both the literal and figurative senses.

Stranger things had probably happened. Arthur worked in the realm of dreams, after all, where the bizarre was commonplace. But there was very little that he could think of that might have trumped this.

Using the camera to record things in the dream-share might have seemed like a waste of resources, since the film couldn't be taken away, up into the waking world. But it was a method that Arthur had used more than once in the past -- all right, if he were to be completely honest, completely fair, it had been _Eames_ who had introduced him to the concept -- by which he used the fact of "recording" events in the dream to cement them more fully in his own mind. It worked on both a conscious and subconscious level, and he still thought that it was both brilliant and obvious. Which made it hardly surprising to him that Eames had come up with it.

And, of course, he'd be using the telescopic lens on the camera to get a better view of what was going on in the apartment. That part was kind of a given.

Arthur put together the collapsible tripod he had purchased, then set the camera on it. The sun was setting, and the building Arthur was in faced west. Which actually worked out perfectly, he thought. The glare off the windows would keep him safe from view, if Eames were to glance over, and with the special hood that came with the telephoto lens, his own ability to peep into the apartment was not deterred.

By the time he had everything set up, Eames and the other Arthur had evidently finished whatever they had been doing. Arthur posited that they had been having a meal out, which guess seemed more than likely when he watched Eames put a small carton that he assumed to be a doggie bag in the fridge.

Meanwhile, Arthur -- he was just going to think of the projection of himself by his own name for now, because it was easier -- had taken off his shoes and collapsed on the sofa with what looked like a huge sigh.

Eames glanced over from the kitchen area and said something with a wide grin. Arthur tossed his head back and laughed.

Arthur, the _real_ Arthur, wondered if Eames had ever seen him laugh. It wasn't as though he was some dour, ice-cold automaton. He just preferred to remain completely professional at work, even if the jobs he took were almost always illegal; in fact, the more so _because_ they were. And he had spent very little time with Eames outside of work, less hours than could be counted on one hand, in fact.

That hadn't been due to lack of effort on Eames' part, Arthur had to admit. Although, after a couple of years of all his invitations being shot down, Eames had given up. And by this point, Arthur might have said yes, but Eames no longer asked, and Arthur couldn't bring himself to do it.

Well, it looked as though Eames had found a substitution for the company of the _real_ Arthur.... And it looked as though his projection of Arthur was more pleasant than Arthur often found himself to be.

He wondered what that meant. That his projection was so open and cheerful. Was that the way that Eames saw him? Or was it the way that Eames _wanted_ him to be?

Either way, Arthur knew that he _could_ have been that way; he just tended not to be. It had been a long, long time since he had felt safe letting down his guard. Mal had been able to get him to laugh like that. But that seemed almost a lifetime ago, as though Arthur had been a different person then.

He hadn't been, of course. He'd been _younger_ , and no one was exactly the same after years of life experience had passed. Sometimes the changes were major, and were affected by something huge, something traumatizing. Like Cobb, before and after losing Mal. Like Fischer, before and after inception. The changes in Arthur were smaller, since he hadn't been through anything that dramatic. Even though he had loved Mal and still missed her, her suicide hadn't broken him the way it had Cobb. But, yes, Arthur did tend to be more serious and uptight than he had used to be, before Mal had died. Before he and Cobb had begun breaking the law. It was only natural, when he was in a profession where failure often had real world consequences, where the bullets were often real.

The fact that Eames so often made it look easy, look downright _enjoyable_.... Well, Arthur considered that to be both a strength and a weakness, but he tended toward the former.

Concerning the matter at hand, Arthur had no way of knowing why his projection was the way he was. He might be able to figure it out by watching more, maybe not, but either way, he pressed "record" and focused all of his attention on the action inside the apartment.

Well, there wasn't much by way of action, to be perfectly honest. Once the leftovers were stowed, both Eames and Arthur vanished briefly, before reappeared in comfortable clothing; a mismatched set of sweats for Arthur and a pair of pajama bottoms and a flannel shirt for Eames. Eames had on slippers and Arthur was wearing bright yellow socks.

The real Arthur wondered if that was a subconscious trick of Eames' mind, or if the man _really_ thought he'd ever be caught dead in socks like that.

The non-action continued. Eames went into the kitchen and began to putter about, filling the kettle and putting it on the stovetop, then digging in the pantry. Arthur settled back down on the sofa with his laptop and didn't look inclined to budge, his feet in their hideous socks tucked underneath him, his head bowed toward the screen. It looked like Arthur's real world laptop, which was hardly surprising, though the real Arthur thought that there probably wasn't anything on it that he would actually be working on. Then again, with how scary accurate Eames had been about some things in this dream, maybe he shouldn't take that for granted.

Eames made some tea for both of them, filling sturdy mugs and carrying Arthur's out to the living area, setting it on the coffee table, within reach. He put it on a coaster, gaining himself a smile and a distracted nod in return.

Then Eames went back into the kitchen and seemed to be... pulling out the ingredients to bake something for dessert, from what Arthur could make out. He'd had no idea that Eames could cook. Granted, this was a dream, but he found it unlikely that Eames would dream about baking a cake if he couldn't do so in reality.

Especially considering that he was making it from scratch. Flour and sugar and eggs, as well as a hand mixer, and Arthur was completely certain by now that Eames knew exactly what he was doing.

Instead of being bored, Arthur found for some reason that watching Eames mix up the batter and grease the pans and putter around in the kitchen, pausing to sip at his tea from time to time, was strangely fascinating. The projection of Arthur didn't seem to think so, since he never looked up from his laptop. Arthur thought, a little irritably, that he knew better than Eames did what he would be spending his attention on if he'd actually been in the apartment.

Once the cakes were in the oven and Eames had set the timer, the forger made up two fresh mugs of tea and walked to the living room area.

This time Arthur didn't even acknowledge him, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Eames didn't seem to mind, and he didn't sit beside Arthur. Instead he took the loveseat, putting up his feet and staring up at the ceiling, his steaming mug cradled in both hands, resting on his chest.

Arthur, in the building across the street, was confused. Surely, if Eames had gone to the trouble of dreaming up a projection of him to live with, to coax into wearing his hair loose, to go out to dinner with... surely he should have been pressing the issue? Shouldn't Eames be interrupting the projection of Arthur the way he tended to do the real Arthur? Shouldn't he be in his personal space, teasing him, taunting him, trying to get a reaction?

Obviously that wasn't what Eames wanted, though, Arthur thought. And he was a little disheartened to realize that he was even further from understanding Eames than he had suspected. Because he was going to have to figure out, find out _why_ Eames was doing this, and how they could get it fixed. Eames couldn't continue doing this. He'd wind up like Mal. Or maybe he'd do what an extractor Arthur had once worked with had done; Fields had found a secluded place, set up the PASIV device so that all the Somnacin vials were full and in use, and then gone under without setting a time to come out. He had died of dehydration before the drugs had run out, long before he had been found.

Not that Arthur thought that Eames would do anything so suicidal.... But then, he'd never have thought he'd have found the forger in a situation like he was in now. Skipping meals, going under _during a job_ , spending entire days' worth of time in the dream-share. God.

Arthur found it strange that Eames and the projection of Arthur were cohabitating, but he thought that it was even stranger that they weren't, evidently, fucking.

It wasn't as though Arthur hadn't noticed how attractive Eames was. It wasn't as though Arthur hadn't noticed Eames noticing Arthur. When Ariadne -- the real one -- had told him that Eames didn't care for the company of women, Arthur had been a little startled, but not really surprised. Eames flirted so easily, so effortlessly, that Arthur had actually thought all this time that he was bisexual. Evidently he had been mistaken. And, once again, he found himself pondering just how little he really knew about Eames, as a man rather than a forger, a colleague.

Arthur sort of wondered what Eames was thinking about right now. He seemed perfectly happy where he was, lounging on the loveseat, occasionally sipping his tea. He was being still, just like he did while waking. And just like when awake, Arthur found it to be strange and confusing. This just wasn't the way that Eames _was_.

Or at least, it _hadn't_ been....

Meanwhile, the projection of Arthur finally lifted his head from his laptop and it looked as though he was reading something aloud to Eames. Eames smiled, glancing over with a fond expression that made Arthur's heart clench, then said something in return.

Arthur didn't think that he had ever seen Eames look at _anyone_ like that while waking. He wondered if he ever had. Not that he knew all of Eames' history, all of the man's interpersonal relationships. But this smile... this was something new to Arthur.

By the time the cake was evidently done -- at least, both Eames and the projection of Arthur went on alert, and then Eames rose and padded to the kitchen, taking all three empty mugs with him -- the sun had long since set. The apartment was well lighted and the building Arthur was spying from was not, so he still thought that he was safe. So far neither Eames nor the other Arthur had so much as glanced toward any of the windows.

As Eames grabbed hotpads and pulled the cake pans out of the oven, Arthur rose and followed him. He touched the small of Eames' back lightly, but with easy familiarity, and the real Arthur squinted through the camera, zooming in a little. But then the projection of Arthur just went to the refrigerator and got a bottled water, then returned to the sofa.

Arthur almost felt as though he was _frustrated_. Which was simply ridiculous... wasn't it? He didn't really _want_ Eames to get it on with a projection of himself, because that would be deviant and creepy. And yet....

While the cakes sat on racks on the counter and cooled, Eames set about mixing again. This time it was butter and sugar, among other things, so Arthur assumed that he was going to ice the cakes.

It seemed a lot of effort to go to, when Eames could have just dreamed up cakes pre-made or at least created a bakery that they could have been purchased from. On the other hand, Arthur thought that it seemed to calm Eames, his movements quick and precise but also easy, as though this was something that he had done many times before but still enjoyed.

Which, okay, might entirely explain why Eames was going to the bother.

The projection of Arthur left the living area, but Arthur hardly cared, except to note that he had headed for either his bedroom or the bathroom, not outside. He had zoomed in on Eames, and was watching him closely as he made a mess out of the kitchen and himself, in the process of sculpting what appeared to be a delicious two-tier cake. And maybe Arthur focused a little too closely on Eames' mouth when he stuck a finger covered in icing between those lush lips and _sucked_... but no one was here to see or to call him on it.

Arthur might not be gay, like Eames evidently was, but he was admittedly bisexual, and he'd have had to have been blind not to have seen how incredible Eames' lips were. In fact, they were almost the first thing he had noticed about the man, which was probably the norm. What made him different from the norm -- or at least he liked to think so -- was the fact that the _very_ first thing he had noted about Eames were his bright grey eyes; both the intelligence in them and the way that they seemed to shift color almost constantly.

That mouth, though, had been a very close second, followed by cheekbones, stubble, muscles, and the rest of the package that was the forger in his entirety. He was also partial to Eames' ass, but he tried not to let himself look too often, because then he'd have had to be more honest with himself than he wanted to be.

Arthur had thought that Eames was making too much icing, until he witnessed how much the man himself consumed while frosting the cake. He smiled involuntarily, fondly, free to do so because no one could see him.

It wasn't that he and Eames didn't get along. Well, okay, it was. Because Eames needled him and Arthur responded harshly, and then that looped into a vicious, self-perpetuating cycle. Arthur found himself wondering for the first time what might happen if he tried being nice to Eames for a change. If Eames might be nice to him in turn, and whether they might find that they got along. Eames had certainly been willing to try it with a projection of Arthur, after all.

Said projection reappeared, joining Eames in the kitchen. He snagged the bowl before Eames could put it in the sink and used his forefinger to get out the last of the icing. It was a little strange for Arthur to watch himself do something so childish. No, not really childish. More... uncontrolled and impulsive. Which was almost the same thing, and yet not the same thing at all.

After watching them behaving so platonically, Arthur was a little surprised when Eames stood behind the false Arthur, sliding his arms carefully around his waist, and rested his head on one shoulderblade. It still wasn't exactly a sexual embrace, but it was very intimate. Arthur felt a little intrusive watching it, which was just stupid, because Eames was the one who was hugging a projection of him without his implicit permission or his overt knowledge.

He now _knew_ about the projection. But only because he had taken it upon himself to snoop. He wasn't _meant_ to know.

Arthur had to admit that he had mixed feelings about this. If he had come into Eames' dream and had not found him _living with a projection of Arthur_ , he'd have felt more guilty. Arthur wasn't of the mindset that two wrongs made a right, but in this case, he thought that his own infraction was canceled out a bit by Eames'. And Eames had done something wrong first.

Yes, that was a remarkably mature response.

Eames did have a knack for bringing out the worst in Arthur, as well as the best, even when they weren't directly conversing.

Arthur watched as the two men had dessert, drank more tea, sat and talked. He wished he knew what they were conversing about; thought about wiring the apartment for sound next time he was here.... And then he wondered what exactly he meant by that thought.

He still had a good seven or eight hours of dream time left. He would still have eleven hours in real time once he awoke, but he thought that after he woke, he should probably just pick himself up and quietly leave Eames' hotel room. After all, even though Eames was hooking up for far longer than he ought, even though he was sharing a living space with a projection of Arthur in the dream-share, he was mostly okay. Arthur had broken into Eames' room because he was worried, then entered the man's dream out of combined curiosity and concern. Now that he knew what was going on, whether it was something he personally approved of or not, he ought to be on his way.

Besides, if Arthur went back under for longer, Eames might notice the resultant dent that this would make in the Somnacin. Unless Arthur was supplying his own -- and he didn't carry it with him -- he didn't dare to use any more. And the longer Arthur spent in the dream, the more chance that the projections would turn on him; even though there didn't seem to be very _many_.

Arthur had already noted while in the apartment that there wasn't a television. Once they were done with their dessert and conversation, Eames and the projection of Arthur sat and read books. All in all, there was a lot more _reading_ going on in Eames' dream than Arthur would have expected. Not that he made the mistake of assuming Eames was as uneducated as he sometimes pretended to be. In fact, he knew the opposite to be true. But, still.

This time they were both on the sofa, and eventually the projection of Arthur wound up with his head on one of Eames' solid thighs, his book propped open on his chest, and his eyes falling closed.

Eames read for almost another hour, occasionally reaching down to run his fingers through Arthur's hair, but eventually he set his book aside, after carefully marking his place with what looked like a silk ribbon, and shook Arthur awake.

The real Arthur watched as the two made their way further into the apartment. As far as he could see, using the zoom lens for all it was worth, both men used the bathroom at the same time, and then... yes, they did, they parted ways, each going to his own bedroom. Arthur was at a bad angle, could barely see the two, but he was pretty sure that Eames kissed Arthur before they went through their respective doors... though it might have been on the cheek rather than the mouth.

"Great," Arthur grumbled. Now here he was, stuck for five and a half hours of dream time, and he had nothing to do.

He took his time dismantling the camera and tripod, carting them over to a corner and leaving them there, back in their boxes inside the paper bags. It was taking a chance, but he was fairly confident that Eames wouldn't be entering this building for any reason, and he didn't think any projections would either.

Once again he found himself wondering what the lack of projections on the street might be symptomatic of, but without straight out asking Eames there was just no way to be sure.

Slipping quietly out of the empty building, Arthur took a breath of crisp night air. In the daylight, the sun had been a warm golden glow over the landscape. Now it was night, and it was sort of the opposite. Well, that much was obvious. But in tone as well as lighting conditions. There was still a sense of serenity, of peace over the city, only now the sky overhead was clear and black, the stars bright pinpoints, and there was a full white moon rising overhead, its battered face perfectly realized. There were no clouds, the air was cool but not cold. The streets had lamps every block, and even where he was standing, Arthur could see that there were a few businesses that had their lights on.

He set off to explore, searching for the boundaries of Eames' dream city, wondering where they were, what might lay beyond them.

He headed south, first, and found a beach before he'd walked an hour. It was stark and beautiful in the moonlight, and he thought that it might be cheerful in the daytime. The sand was white and the water was clear, and Arthur could smell the salt in the air.

Walking north and east brought him to an area that was either a China Town, or else something transplanted right out of China. Since he didn't think that Eames had ever spent a _lot_ of time in China, Arthur was betting on the former.

This area was brighter, more colorful than the rest of the streets, with lots of neon lights and exotic items in the shop windows, but without any more projections than Arthur had seen in the other parts of the city. Which was to say, a few clerks and customers in the shops, but no one walking the streets, no moving vehicles. It should have felt creepy; like something out of a zombie movie at worst, or lonely at best. And yet it didn't. It felt... _quiet_. As though Arthur was welcome here, could move down the streets without having to worry about anyone other than himself.

Arthur thought that it was a little strange that none of Eames' projections seemed to care that he was here. Even taking into account that there was a projection of _Arthur_ living here, the real Arthur was an invader. Eames' subconscious should have recognized that fact.

Not that he minded at all that it evidently hadn't.

Arthur found other elements to the city. A large marble fountain in a courtyard, a garden full of topiaries and flower beds, more bookstores than could have survived that close together in reality. He passed the coffee shop he had found the projection of Ariadne in. It was closed up for the night, dark and empty.

He kept trying to reach the edges of the city, but then he would find himself being distracted by things inside its hypothetical borders. There was a lot to see, a lot to take in.

And the whole time that he searched, explored, in the back of his mind he was visualizing Eames and his projection of Arthur, sleeping in their separate beds, warm and comfortable, yet alone.

For some reason, this seemed to him like a terrible waste. Though he'd have been hard pressed to justify this opinion.

***

Arthur was a little surprised when he blinked his eyes open and found himself staring at a diagonal view of Eames' hotel room from floor level. He'd been so involved in his exploration that he hadn't really noticed the passage of time.

The first thing that he decided as he stood and stretched out the stiffness that came from sitting on the floor, slumped against the side of the bed for an hour, was that he needed more information.

Talking to Ariadne seemed like the logical place to start. She was the one who had told him that Eames considered him a friend. She was the one who had said that Eames was lonely; Arthur wanted to know what she was basing that supposition on. He also wanted to know what else Eames had told her. And why she thought that he and Eames were good for each other -- oh, wait, that had been the projection of Ariadne in Eames' dream world.

Mostly, though, Arthur needed to find out _why Eames was doing this_. Not that he thought Ariadne would know the answer to that question, but she could at least tell him whatever she knew.

He'd never have thought that Eames would have found his life so intolerable that he'd need to retreat to another world created in the dream-share. He'd thought that Eames was more steady than that, more pragmatic. Had thought that Eames enjoyed reality too much for something like that to tempt him.

This situation seemed to indicate a big problem, somewhere -- Eames knew as well as Arthur how dangerous, how addictive the dream could be -- and Arthur needed to know what had gone wrong, where, and whether it was something that he could fix.

At least he knew where to start, even if he didn't know how he was going to go about dealing with it.

Making sure that all traces of his presence were erased, he took a last glance at the PASIV device, scowling over the fact that it still had more than ten hours on it, then took himself out of Eames' room.

There was something wrong, and he needed to do something about it. Maybe it wasn't his place. But there was no one else who could or would step in.

And, besides, the fact that Eames was living with a projection of Arthur in the dream-share had to mean _something_ , right?

***

Thankfully for Arthur's peace of mind, Ariadne was at home. She let him in with a small frown, but with bright curiosity in her eyes.

"Did you talk to Eames?"

"Not exactly," he replied, folding his arms. As wrong as it had felt, breaking into Eames' hotel room and then his dream, it felt even more odd being in Ariadne's living space, seeing her outside of work. So, best to get on with things.

"I need you to do something for me," he continued.

"What?" Ariadne didn't sound like she was very responsive, but she didn't sound as though she was going to flat out refuse him. Of course, she hadn't heard his request yet.

Arthur didn't squirm, just in general... but if he had, he'd have been inclined to do so in this moment. He thought that his ears turned a little red, could feel them getting heated, and he did his best to ignore the sensation.

"I need you to ask Eames and me out to dinner."

"What?" This time Ariadne sounded confused and slightly incredulous, her brows rising. She squinted at him. "Really, Arthur? Are we still in high school? Why can't _you_ just ask him out on a date?"

"It's not a date!" Arthur snapped, then he drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Look, I need to see how he interacts with people, with friends, with _us_. I need to watch him talk to you, and I need you to watch him talk to me. And besides," he frowned, "He's far more likely to agree to go along if you invited him than if I did."

"Are you sure about that last?" Ariadne asked, and Arthur hadn't known her brow could winch up that high.

"Very sure." He nodded firmly, because he was. Whatever was going on in Eames' dream, it was all within the dream-share. Somehow Arthur didn't think that Eames would react well if Arthur started hitting on him in the waking world.

"Hm." Ariadne's pretty pink lips twisted to the side, but then she gave it a moment's thought and then nodded briefly. "All right. You might be right about that."

"So you'll do it?" Arthur pressed.

She sighed. "Yes. He's gonna think it's weird, but I'll ask. Because I'm worried about him."

"Well, that's why _I'm_ doing it," Arthur said. And he was.

"What happened?" Ariadne asked curiously. "You said you didn't talk to him, but something has changed...."

Arthur shook his head. "It's not my place to talk about it right now."

Ariadne wrinkled her nose. "Fine. Be mysterious." She grabbed her phone, but Arthur shook his head.

"Don't bother. He won't pick up. Ask him, ask us, tomorrow."

Ariadne blinked at him, then narrowed her eyes. " _Something_ happened," she accused flatly.

"I told you--"

"Yeah, yeah." She frowned at him, almost a pout, but harder than that, more focused. "Don't think you can keep things from me, Arthur."

"Ariadne, that is the last thing I would think," he replied honestly.

She smiled, mollified and pleased. "Well. All right then."

***

It was both easier and more difficult than Arthur had expected. Ariadne called them both back to the suite they'd been working in the next afternoon, sighting some last minute changes she was going to have to make due to the addition of Cobb.

Arthur was impressed by this. Both that she had thought of the changes, which actually _were_ necessary, and that she had come up with a completely legitimate reason to drag Eames back into their company.

Arthur eyed Eames closely, but he didn't look much different than normal. Well, Eames' _new_ normal, that was. He was still more quiet, more watchful than Arthur was used to. It was still disconcerting; no more so and no less so, now that Arthur knew about the home inside the dream-share, inside his own subconscious, that Eames had created. Because now he knew, but he still didn't _know_.

"Thank you," Ariadne said to them once they were done. Then, before either man could pack up and leave, she casually tossed it out, as though it was nothing at all. "Who's up for having dinner out?"

Arthur didn't reply right away, mainly because he was watching Eames to see his reaction... but he didn't figure that was too out of character for him. He suspected that he might have done the same even if Ariadne hadn't issued this invitation at his behest. Though, if that had been the case, he might have been less likely to accept.

Eames at first didn't seem to take note of this suggestion, shrugging into his jacket. Then he gave Arthur one sharp glance, before turning his attention to Ariadne.

"Who were you speaking to, love?" he asked, and Arthur could admit to himself how much he missed that smooth rumble, the raspy husk of Eames' voice, when the forger remained so quiet all the time.

"Both of you," Ariadne replied easily, smiling at Eames and then sweeping forward to take his arm. "Please say yes."

Eames frowned down at her, and Arthur wanted to erase the lines from his forehead, then raised his dark gaze to Arthur.

Arthur shrugged, trying to look as blase as he could without giving the entire thing away. "I'm game," he said, grabbing his coat.

Eames' frown deepened at this, and he looked very much as though he would refuse.

"Come on, Eames," Ariadne cajoled. "Keep me from being lonely tonight."

"You'd have Arthur with you for that," Eames protested weakly. But Ariadne had very obvious hit him in a weak spot, whether she had done so deliberately or not, and she had yet to release his arm. So in the end he went along with them.

Arthur refused to acknowledge the fact that he breathed a sigh of relief over this, even to himself.

***

Of course, getting Eames to the restaurant with both of them was only the _first_ part of the plan, though it may have been the hardest part.

Ariadne chattered away with forced cheer once they had seated themselves, and Arthur realized that for all she was so mature, so together, she was really very disconcerted by Eames' unaccustomed quietness. Which was probably why she had asked Arthur for help, and why she had been willing to go along with this meal out despite not being given any further details.

Arthur was quiet as well, at least at first, watching Eames. He didn't mean to be, but, well, it wasn't as though Ariadne was going to let him get a word in edgewise.

Eames gave Ariadne a soft, affectionate look, and with what was almost a visible effort, launched himself into conversation with the girl.

Arthur knew that part of what he was supposed to be doing was engaging Eames as well, so that Ariadne could observe _them_ interacting, but for now he just perused the menu and watched the other two talk. Because that was what he was _really_ here for, and also because he didn't know what to say.

"So are you looking forward to seeing Cobb again?" Eames asked Ariadne, after the waitress had come and taken their orders.

Ariadne gave Eames a squinty stare that Cobb would have been proud of. Arthur had to hide a small grin in his water glass. "Not the way you're thinking," she informed Eames crisply.

He raised his hands, flashing his crooked front teeth in what looked like an honestly amused smile. "I didn't mean to imply anything untoward," he assured her. "I merely wondered."

"Well." Ariadne drank some of her own water, and Arthur noted that her cheeks were flushed. He exchanged a wry glance with Eames and was only startled after the fact to realize how easy, how natural it had been. "All right."

"What about you, Arthur?" Eames asked, purring his name the way he did when he was relaxed or teasing, instead of enunciating it crisply, as he tended to do when he was annoyed. His expression remained cheerful and easy going, but Arthur didn't think that he imagined the sharpness in his dark eyes, beneath his heavy lids.

Arthur shrugged. "If I missed Cobb, I'd go visit him. But it'll be good to have him on this job. As long as Mal is gone, his presence will help immensely."

"Ah, but that's the thing," Eames drawled. At this point their drinks were delivered, and Arthur took a bracing sip of mixed liquor, even though he hadn't eaten anything in really far too long for that to be entirely a good idea. Well, their food should be arriving soon.

"She'll be gone," Ariadne spoke up, and she sounded sure of herself. "Cobb came to terms with her death in limbo and then I shot her; I mean his projection of her. I don't think she'll show up."

Eames' brows rose at that, and he looked both disturbed and impressed.

"And if she does show up, we're just back to Plan A or Plan B, instead of Plan Cobb," Arthur put in, surprising a short laugh out of Eames.

"Just hoping he doesn't cock things up," Eames said, and he was moving his drink glass in small circles on the coaster, around and around, instead of raising it to his lips. "I've no objection to giving him a chance, or I'd have said something before we invited him all the way here from the States."

Ariadne seemed placated. And since Arthur was in agreement with _both_ of them, he wasn't about to harp on the subject.

Their orders arrived and they ate, talking about inconsequential things like the weather and local politics. They didn't discuss the job any further, or the fact that from all they could see, the inception they had performed on Robert Fischer seemed to be working. Cobb wasn't mentioned again. Ariadne did ask how Yusuf was doing, and Eames just shrugged and replied that he had gone back to what he had been doing before Saito's job, only with a hell of a lot more money in the bank.

"What are you going to do after we finish this extraction?" Ariadne asked Eames, as they sipped coffee and picked at some sumptuous desserts. They were all full, but the restaurant Ariadne had chosen was known for its pastries, and so they couldn't just leave without trying them.

Besides, none of them seemed to want to part company. Arthur had never thought of himself as being lonely, no matter what Ariadne said -- and was that the real Ariadne, or her projection? -- but he had to admit that this was... nice. Comfortable and pleasant, spending time with people that he liked and respected. That he considered friends. And, yes, he supposed that after all he _did_ consider Eames a friend, despite his earlier protestations to the contrary.

"Well, that rather depends," Eames replied, snatching a bite of Arthur's torte with his fork. Arthur watched him lick the tines, noted the chocolate crumbs at the corner of Eames' plush lips, and he felt a familiar but unexpected heat flare in his midsection... or possibly lower.

"Depends on what?" Ariadne queried, frowning.

Eames smiled, but there was very little humor in the expression, and his eyes were hard. "Well, it rather depends on whether the professor is guilty or not," he said softly, so that his voice wouldn't carry past their table. "Because if he is, I'll be leaving France in rather a hurry, having done something terribly illegal."

Ariadne had huge eyes, even though Arthur had thought they'd been over this before, all three of them.

"You know that I'll be making sure we don't get caught," he had to protest, scowling at Eames. As though Eames would be the only one to do the dirty work.

Eames actually had to gall to look surprised, the bastard. But the confusion cleared, and he almost looked... pleased. Or, at least, relieved.

"Thank you, darling," he said, so low Arthur could barely hear him. "And I have all faith in your abilities. But, honestly, I do tend to leave the country quickly whenever I've committed murder, whether there's any chance I might be fingered for it or not."

Arthur nodded grimly, and Ariadne was a little pale, but she didn't look too freaked out. Well, she was working with criminals. Even though they usually worked in people's dreams, even though they were currently trying to discover whether or not someone _else_ had done something illegal and morally indefensible, they were dangerous men. She knew that, and she liked them anyway.

"Just don't do anything without consulting me first," Arthur hissed across the table. Their server was approaching with the bill, but he couldn't wait until she was gone to say this. Eames had a habit of vanishing at inconvenient times, and that applied to this instance as well as to the end of their job. "Promise me, Eames. If he's guilty, talk to me before you do _anything_."

To his immense relief, Eames nodded, and from the way he was meeting Arthur's eyes steadily, he probably meant it. "All right, all right. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

"Oh my God, I can't believe you just said that," Ariadne gasped, then burst into a nervous giggle. Arthur snagged the bill and pulled out his wallet.

" _That_ was what you had trouble with?" Eames asked incredulously, though his serious look had lifted and he was smiling slightly in sympathy with the girl. Then his gaze sharpened as he looked at Arthur. "Oi, give me that," he protested, reaching across the table for the slip of paper. Arthur held it out of reach, then handed it to the waitress with his credit card. "Arthur," Eames rumbled reproachfully. "I could have at least taken care of my share and Ariadne's."

"No." Arthur shook his head. "This was my idea; I'm paying."

Of course, the moment the words left his lips he knew they were a mistake. Normally he was more careful, but he'd been distracted. By Eames' smile. By Ariadne's anxious laughter. By the thought of Eames' committing murder and then fleeing to somewhere Arthur might not be able to find him while he spent too long in the dream-share. To this job being over soon, and none of them having any further excuses to indulge in a pleasant meal together like this one.

Ariadne's mouth rounded, and she hastened to pat Eames' shoulder. "You can treat next time," she said, leaving her hand on his upper arm and squeezing. "How about tomorrow? Eames, you're getting too skinny. We obviously need to make sure you're eating regularly."

She was babbling, of course, trying to cover for Arthur's verbal gaffe. It was too late, Eames had noticed it -- how could he not? -- but aside from one quick, sharp glance at Arthur, he seemed willing to let it go.

"Are you seriously going to tell me that you're worried about my weight?" he asked Ariadne, and Arthur was relieved to hear that his tone was still relatively light. "When both you and Arthur are tiny little slips of nothing?"

"Hey, I'm all muscle," Arthur protested before he could censor himself. Being underestimated was an asset that he exploited on a regular basis, but that didn't mean he liked it when _Eames_ was so quick to dismiss him.

"No, _I_ am all muscle," Eames corrected smoothly. He gave Arthur a crooked grin, his gaze impossible to read. " _You_ are wiry, I'll give you that."

"But, Eames," Ariadne interrupted, and now she had two small hands clasped around Eames' upper arm, squeezing through the material of his shirt. "The point is, Arthur and I are both the same as we have been. _You_ have lost weight."

Eames gave a longsuffering sigh, and Arthur sympathized, but Ariadne had a point. And if the forger wasn't going to take care of himself, obviously they were going to have to do it for him.

Besides, time he was spending with them was time he wasn't spending by himself -- and it _was_ by himself, familiar projections notwithstanding -- in the dream-share. If he'd been going under for twelve hours at a time, that was at least two meals' worth, so it was no wonder that he was slimming down.

"Just say yes to her invite, and she'll lay off," Arthur advised absently, signing the credit card slip and then pulling cash out of his wallet for the tip, the way he preferred to do it.

Ariadne pulled a face at him, and he gave her a level stare. She sighed. "Fine. Eames?"

"How could I turn down a second dinner invitation from our precious architect?" Eames said, pointedly not looking at Arthur as he asked this question.

Arthur hid a grimace through long practice. He'd screwed that up, but not irreversibly. After all, Eames still didn't know _why_ Arthur had masterminded this meal.

"We should do lunch together," Ariadne was saying to Eames as the three of them collected themselves to leave. "Just you and me. And then meet Arthur for dinner."

Arthur was a little surprised by this. But it was clear that there was something going on with Eames. Arthur actually had a far better idea than Ariadne what it was -- although, he only knew about the symptom, not the cause -- but that didn't mean that Ariadne wouldn't want to do some fishing in her own. And that actually wasn't be a bad idea. Eames might be more likely to let his guard down for Ariadne than for Arthur, or while he was with both of them.

"Yes, all right," Eames agreed, after a long pause that they all noticed but no one mentioned.

He helped Ariadne into her coat, and then they left the restaurant. Eames bid them a pleasant "good night" and headed toward his hotel, breath haloing his head in the crisp night air. Arthur thought of the night in Eames' dream world. It was been a pleasant chill, not ball-freezingly cold, like this Parisian evening.

"Come on." Ariadne grabbed Arthur's arm, much as she had grasped Eames', and dragged him the opposite direction.

Arthur didn't resist. He knew when to defy Ariadne and this was not one of those times. Besides, they both had a lot to talk about.

***

"What the hell is going on?" Ariadne asked, once they were curled up on her tiny loveseat, mugs of hot chocolate clasped in their hands to banish the last of the chill.

"What do you mean?" Arthur winced at the glare she gave him. "No, really. You're going to have to be a little more specific than that."

She actually _growled_ at him. "Arthur!"

"What do _you_ think is going on?" he asked, as much in self defense as because he wanted to get her input.

She gave him such a fierce glare that he almost thought for a moment that she was going to slap him. But then she deflated, sinking into the cushions and slurping her cocoa.

"Well, there's something going on with Eames," she said, grudgingly. "And you know more than you're telling me."

Arthur nodded, because she was right about that, and she should trust what her instincts were telling her. "It's not something I'm holding back by choice," he told her ruefully. "I can't tell you, because it's not my business, and I shouldn't know about it myself."

She scowled at him, obviously thinking violent thoughts. "How do you expect me to help you with this if you're keeping vital information from me?" she accused.

Arthur didn't really have any good response for that, but he _couldn't_ tell Ariadne about the dream world with its projection of her and another of himself that Eames was spending far too much time in. It wasn't his place to share that information.

Fortunately for him, Ariadne just gave vent to an aggravated sigh, and then turned her quick mind to the problem at hand.

"Well, obviously he's different than he was during the Fischer job. I didn't know him before that, but...."

"He was about the same as always," Arthur verified. "During the job."

Ariadne nodded, her gaze distant. "I can't tell what's changed. I mean, when we were eating dinner, at first he was more quiet, but then he was about the same as before. Except that he wasn't baiting you the way he used to do. And he was nicer to me than usual, but he's kind of been nicer ever since we started _this_ job."

Arthur nodded. He'd noticed that too. Eames had been perfectly polite to Ariadne during the Fischer job, had been a complete gentleman. But he had also been a bit distant. During this job he'd been warmer, more fond, more inclined to give Ariadne a pat on the shoulder or a quick one-armed hug.

"He was on guard during the Fischer job," he told her. "He could tell there was something wrong with Cobb, even if he didn't know what, and he saw you as Cobb's little shadow. Also, you were a complete amateur involved in the biggest heist ever attempted in the dream-share, no matter how gifted you obviously were. It wasn't personal.... But that was the problem, it wasn't _personal_. He knows you better now. And he likes you."

Ariadne was nodding. "I think he might also have been jealous of how much time you and I were spending together, Arthur," she said, giving him a wicked little grin. "He got stuck with Cobb, doing all the planning, and you and I were off building impossible worlds in our dreams."

Arthur was aware that his mouth had fallen open, but he had to admit, now that Ariadne had said it, it made a lot of sense. If, _if_ he believed Ariadne, that he was that important to Eames.

He wouldn't have thought so, before. But seeing Eames living with a projection of himself in a dream world, being domestic and happy and not constantly molesting said projection.... Well, perhaps Ariadne had a point. He always forgot to give her credit for being more perceptive than... well, pretty much anyone that he knew.

"So we were out to dinner and he was mostly normal," Ariadne was saying. "But at the beginning and end of the meal, and during most of this job, he's been... quiet. And I can't figure out why."

"That's exactly it," Arthur replied, relieved that he hadn't been the only one to think so. "And he's still."

"Still wha-- Oh!" Ariadne grinned sheepishly. "You mean he sits still, right?" When Arthur nodded she took a pensive sip of her cocoa. "Yeah, before he was always moving, right? Playing with that poker chip, swinging his chair around, his head always moving when he talked and even when he listened. But now, it's like he's always alert, always watching. I can't tell if he's watching _us_ , or if it's a weird new habit that he'd formed independently of us."

And this was why Arthur wanted to talk about this with Ariadne. Because she brought fresh eyes and a frighteningly intuitive mind to the matter. Not that she had any answers. Neither did he. But it was good to take note of everything, to examine all angles of the situation.

"I don't know," he replied, honestly and helplessly. "I've yet to figure out what's changed. But I know one thing. I know you were right."

"About what?" Ariadne asked, crinkling her brow. "Besides everything," she couldn't seem to help but add, with a crooked grin.

Arthur smiled absently in return, but answered seriously. "About him being lonely."

"Oh." Ariadne blinked at him, then finished the last of her cocoa. "Well, duh!"

Arthur gave her a hard look, but let her get away with that. She was, after all, still very young.

***

They didn't manage to resolve anything, and so Arthur returned to his own hotel room feeling restless and dissatisfied. But there wasn't really anything more left he could do.

And, honestly, it wasn't any of his business. Sure, he and Ariadne were worried about Eames. But Eames was a grown man, responsible for himself, and so far his change in attitude hadn't affected his ability to get his job done. Yes, it was true that he had projections of both Arthur and Ariadne in his dream, which was morally questionable.... But who was to say it had been a conscious choice on his part? After all, Cobb certainly hadn't had any control over when Mal showed up or what she did. And Arthur had been the one to violate Eames' dream, snooping where he had not been invited.

He still didn't feel bad about it. But, on the other hand, it seriously wasn't any of his business.

Only, it was. Ariadne had given him the key to that fact. She had told him, straight from Eames' own lips, that the man considered Arthur to be a _friend_. Granted, this had been news to Arthur. But now that he knew, he couldn't un-know that. And that made him responsible. Because what other friends did Eames have?

Well, Ariadne, whether Eames realized it or not. And Arthur would have liked to _see_ Eames try to deny that fact to Ariadne's face. Only not really, because that might get messy.

At any rate, though, Arthur now knew that Eames considered him a friend. Since Eames had said it first, Arthur could admit to himself that it might not be the worst thing in the world if he considered Eames a friend as well.

Ariadne had also hinted that Eames might want more than friendship from him. Both Ariadne in the real world, _and_ the projection of her in Eames' dream. And since the projection of Ariadne was a piece of Eames' subconscious, Arthur was inclined to trust her insights into Eames and his motivations.

What he wasn't sure of was exactly how he felt about knowing Eames wanted more than friendship from him.

It seemed unlikely that Eames was going to push him into anything. Even in the dream-share, knowing that he was dealing with a projection of Arthur, Eames had been patient, circumspect. It almost seemed as though he was wooing the projection of Arthur. This was not the action of a man who was likely to make a move on Arthur in reality. So that meant that anything that happened was going to be up to Arthur.

 _If_ he decided that anything should happen. Anything more than friendship, that was.

He was uncertain of that part of it. Which only made sense, because for all he had worked with Eames, had dreamt with him, had endured teasing, taunts, and jibes from the man, he didn't feel as though he knew Eames very well.

This was what decided him. He would be a friend for Eames, the way that Eames considered him a friend. As for the rest of it, he would get to know Eames better before making a decision. It was, after all, something that would change both of their lives, forever. Arthur didn't dare to make a mistake, to screw this up.

Before he made a decision, he needed more information.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Fischer job, some of the former team come together once again, but there is something off about Eames. Can Arthur and Ariadne find out what's going on and can Arthur figure out how to fix it?

Arthur had a plan. It was a simple plan and so it was easy enough to implement. He tried calling Eames. There was no reply, which was exactly what he had expected. Soon enough he was back before Eames' hotel room, knocking on the door. He didn't know what he would say if Eames answered it... but he didn't really think that he would. And he didn't.

Arthur let himself in the way he had before, and found what he had found before. Only this time Eames was in his pajamas, under the covers, and he only had the timer set for six hours. Good that he was being reasonable, Arthur thought sarcastically to himself, with a wry twist of his mouth. Because this was very much _not_ good. This was an addiction. They might need Eames at any moment, and they wouldn't be able to get a hold of him. Not to mention it definitely hadn't been more than twelve hours since Eames had last emerged from his dream world. To be going back under again so soon....

These were none of them good signs, Arthur thought, rolling up his sleeve and bending over the softly hissing PASIV device with a mild sense of deja vu.

Once again, he gave himself one hour. Any more than that and he risked being caught. Maybe not here, in the waking world, but under, in Eames' dream.

Of course, there was always the chance that he might appear right next to Eames and his projection of Arthur in the dream-share. But this thought didn't occur to Arthur until he was already moving to depress the plunger, and by then it was too late. Not that it would have stopped him anyway.

And it didn't happen. He blinked to awareness outside the coffee shop where the projection of Ariadne worked, which wasn't surprising. He _was_ a little surprised by the fact that the dream city was damp and dark and full of mist. It wasn't raining, but it had been, and it felt as though it might again.

Arthur glanced up, feeling cool water whispering against his face. It was so heavily overcast that he couldn't tell what time of day it was. This was the sort of cloud cover that Arthur had only observed rarely. The dark clouds hung so low that he almost felt as though he was indoors, even though he was standing on the sidewalk. It didn't seem oppressive, though.

It came to Arthur passingly that the hue and shade of the sky resembled Eames' eyes. It was a silly, random, and, he admitted, slightly poetic thought to have. And Eames accused him of lacking imagination.

The weather was a contradiction much the same way that Eames himself so often was. It was cool and yet comfortable. The air was full of moisture and yet it was crisp. Arthur could see dampness collecting on his shoulders, knew that it was settling on his hair, and yet he was perfectly comfortable.

He didn't want to spend too long standing here, however. A glance inside the shop, through the condensation on the windows, made him aware that the projection of Ariadne was in there, making coffee and other drinks. But Arthur had just finished talking to the Ariadne in reality; he didn't feel like dealing with her here. Not right this instant. Maybe later.

Instead, he made his way back to the apartment building. And, more importantly, to the empty office building across the street from it.

He would really have liked to be able to get a closer look at the apartment and its inhabitants, but for now he would settle for what he could get, would make do with surveillance from a distance. Because he couldn't let Eames know he was here, not if he could help it.

The streets hadn't changed, nor had the buildings, and Arthur's equipment was still right where he had left it. The paper bags had gotten a bit damp from the moisture in the air but the equipment inside them was undamaged. Arthur got everything set up with quick and steady movements. He didn't even know whether Eames and his projection of Arthur were "home", but he'd find out soon enough, once he could see over there.

There were droplets of rain or concentrated mist on the glass of the windows, but not enough to obscure his view. The apartment was brightly lighted, lamps filling it with a golden glow, and Arthur was surprised to see that the balcony door was wide open, as though the inhabitants of the apartment were enjoying the weather. Perhaps they were; Arthur didn't like getting wet, but he did have a fondness for rainy days, so long as he could view them from the comfort of the indoors. He didn't make the mistake of thinking that Eames had any control over the weather in his dream, but this light mist was so bracing and yet so comfortable that he almost thought that it must be deliberate.

Arthur was glad for the open balcony door, whatever the cause. It made it easier for him to see inside, to watch what Eames and the other Arthur were doing.

Eames was... painting. Which Arthur found to be unexpected. Well, that might actually go a long way toward explaining the open balcony door. If Eames was working in oils, then he wouldn't want to be in an unventilated area.

The projection of Arthur was curled up on the sofa, typing on his laptop again. Arthur wondered what Eames thought that the other Arthur was _doing_ , spending so much time on the thing. Arthur didn't use his laptop that much in reality. Maybe projection Arthur was writing a novel, he thought with a crooked grin and an exasperated shake of his head.

Eames was wearing a paint-stained teeshirt that was actually a little too large, and had obviously been used for this purpose many times before. Underneath that, he had on a pair of dark sweats and his feet were bare. He was holding a traditionally shaped pallet with an ease that made it clear he knew what he was doing, and there was an extra brush tucked behind one of his ears. With the zoom lens, Arthur could see a smear of what might be alizarin crimson on one of Eames' temples, and a streak of burnt sienna along his jaw. His hair was a mess, evidently completely free of product.

The projection of Arthur was neatly contained, by comparison. He had on a flannel button-up that looked like it might belong to Eames, a pair of sweat pants, and those terrible yellow socks again. His hair was still loose, but it seemed more subdued, more controlled, perhaps in deference to the weather. Clearly Eames was unaware that Arthur's hair in reality curled even _more_ whenever there was any moisture in the air, even if it wasn't humid.

The projection of Arthur looked up, said something to Eames, then smiled and set aside his laptop. Rising, he padded around to peer at the painting over Eames' shoulder.

Eames had him down, Arthur had to admit, all his moves and his mannerisms. Which was hardly surprising, considering how handily he's been able to duplicate Arthur's actual clothing, his real _bedroom_. This depth of detail was a little unsettling. On the other hand, Arthur knew that Eames was in the practice of studying people. He _had_ to be, in order to be a good forger in the dream-share. So it was only natural that once he found something -- someone -- to focus on in reality, he would bring all of his not inconsiderable talents to bear.

Projection Arthur stared at the painting, and the real Arthur almost felt offended on Eames' behalf, at the critical care with which his projection examined it.

Arthur wished that _he_ could see what Eames was working on. Whether it was a forgery or an original piece of art. Whether it was something that Eames could or would want to duplicate in the waking world. Whether it was controlled or a mess. Mostly he wanted to see what it would reveal about Eames and his subconscious.

He only realized well after the fact that the projection of himself had slung an arm around Eames' waist, was leaning into the forger's body. It didn't look awkward or uncomfortable, and Eames actually didn't appear to notice. He was scowling at his painting, teeth catching at his lower lip. He dabbed his brush against the easel, swathed a few more strokes of color on the canvas, and then his frown eased. _There,_ Arthur thought he saw Eames say, although he was more captivated by the curve of Eames' lips than he was paying attention to what word or words they might be framing.

The projection of Arthur said something to Eames that made him shake his head, thumbed uselessly at the sienna on his jaw, then padded into the kitchen in his dreadful socks. Those bright yellow travesties were the one thing about this whole scenario that Arthur thought to be nearly unforgivable. Otherwise, he found that he didn't begrudge Eames this domestic retreat. Hell, he was almost jealous, almost wished that it was him there, not his projection.... But, oh, those _socks_.

He watched, feeling not a jot of guilt for doing so, as Eames went back to work on his painting, and the other Arthur started rummaging in the pantry.

Evidently Eames hadn't been finished with the painting after all, and evidently he had more confidence in Arthur's ability to cook than the real Arthur thought was wise, as his projection started making them what might be lunch or dinner.

Arthur wondered if Eames painted in reality. He would have thought not; the man was busy in the dream-share, gambling, running scams.... On the other hand, Arthur didn't really know what Eames did with his private time. Maybe he _did_ paint.

With Arthur playing voyeur, Eames and his projection of Arthur whiled away what was evidently the afternoon, considering that the overcast sky did not get very much darker. Eames finished his painting, cleaning up his supplies, then vanishing into the bathroom, leaving the artwork on the easel, facing away from the balcony door. By the time the faux-Arthur was done cooking their meal, Eames had emerged, his hair wet and spiky, his cheeks flushed. He had obviously taken a quick shower, and the bright colors were gone from his face and hands. He'd also changed his clothes, was wearing about the same thing he'd worn the last time Arthur had spied on him in the dream-share; a flannel shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms.

He looked warm and comfortable and Arthur was willing to bet that he smelled good. He felt a tug of something that was far too obviously jealousy when Eames joined his projection in the kitchen and gave him another gentle hug from behind. Again, there was nothing overtly sexual about it, but somehow it seemed all the more intimate _because_ of this fact.

The projection leaned back into Eames for a moment, but then he clearly informed him that their meal was ready, and the two of them broke apart, dishing up portions of a casserole that Arthur would never have been able to cook in reality. Not that he couldn't cook. Because he could. But he had no idea how to make anything like what his projection had just made. It must be a recipe that Eames knew.

If it had actually been Arthur in that kitchen, he'd have made soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. That would have suited this weather perfectly.

He quashed the part of him that wished that it _had_ been him in the kitchen, cooking for them both.

Eames and his projection of Arthur ate in the dining nook and it began raining again, obscuring the real Arthur's view. He frowned, but there was nothing he could do about that. The balcony door was still open, so he shifted the camera to that part of the apartment, even though it was unoccupied at the moment.

The painting was there, taunting him. He could tell from the ragged, uneven edges of the canvas where it was stapled to the wood that it had been stretched by hand, probably by Eames, not mass produced. There were stains on the easel, memories of previous works. Arthur wondered if this easel was a replica of one that Eames owned in reality. He thought that it probably was.

A flicker of movement closer to the camera lens had Arthur's heart skipping, his adrenaline spiking. But when he pulled back the focus, he saw that it was just a cat mincing lightly along the railing of the balcony, its orange-striped tail held high like a banner.

The rain had stopped once again, though the sky was just as overcast, and it was beginning to get darker, beginning to look like evening.

The cat was large, a shorthaired tabby with a white chin and socks, bristling whiskers, and wide green eyes. Arthur was about to dismiss it, but then Eames came out onto the balcony and set his hand on its wide triangular head with a fond little grin.

Arthur watched, captivated, as Eames stroked the cat, cooed something at it, asked it a question judging by the curious tilt to his head. He scratched under the cat's chin with easy fingers, and Arthur reflected again over the fact that Eames had strong hands, broad palms, and yet his fingers were lean and graceful. They were nimble; of course they were, they were the hands of a pickpocket. But they were also hands that could rumple a cat's ruff, that knew how to handle a feline without pissing it off.

Well, it _was_ Eames' dream, Arthur reflected, which meant that the cat was just a piece of his subconscious. But he still thought that Eames was working from actual knowledge here, like he had clearly been while baking a cake.

Once the cat had gotten its fill of petting, it jumped down from the railing onto the balcony. Eames fetched a bowl of something out of the kitchen, ignoring the projection of Arthur who rolled his eyes, and then set it down for the cat.

It just figured, Arthur thought, that Eames' ideal pet in his ideal dream world was a stray cat that he didn't have to be responsible for, that he could cuddle and feed and then set free. It made Arthur feel a little sad, but the fact was that with the lifestyle they _both_ lived, neither of them had the time, resources, or desire for pets that required any sort of real maintenance.

Faux-Arthur was back on his laptop and the real Arthur kind of hated him for it, even though it was Eames who was to blame, even though it was Eames' subconscious that was convinced that whatever was on that laptop was more fascinating than Eames was.

Eames went back inside and made some tea, much like the last time Arthur had watched the two spend the evening together. He settled down on the loveseat again, but this time he wound up with a large orange tabby on his chest, instead of a steaming mug. Arthur didn't think it was a bad guess to imagine that the cat was purring. He didn't know who he was more jealous of; Eames or the tabby.

Maybe he was most jealous of his projection, who didn't seem to recognize or care what he had.

At first Arthur had thought that Eames' subconscious was being overly familiar. Now he wondered if Eames might not be judging Arthur and his probable responses too harshly.

But then he realized that this shift had happened inside his _own_ mind, and that it had happened largely in the last twenty-four hours. So, honestly, it was no wonder that Eames hadn't yet caught up. In point of fact, Arthur wasn't sure that _he_ had caught up yet.

He had a lot to think about. And not just about what was going on inside Eames' subconscious, but what was going on inside his own.

***

When Arthur emerged from the dream, he collected himself and left, like last time. He couldn't justify spend more time in Eames' dream, and, besides, he had things to consider.

Heading back to his own hotel, he gave a moment's thought to calling Ariadne. But even though twelve hours had gone by for him in the dream-share, the two of them had spoken only a couple of hours ago, and he still couldn't tell her about what Eames was doing. So, technically speaking, he had nothing new to discuss with her.

He would have to leave things where they were at the moment, and hope that Ariadne might make some headway during her lunch with Eames tomorrow, that they might turn something up together during dinner.

He didn't hold out great hope for any of this. But without confronting Eames directly over what the man was doing, it was the most that Arthur could manage right now.

***

Around two in the afternoon the next day, Ariadne texted Arthur.

_[had a nice lunch but didn't find out anything useful]_

Arthur smiled slightly and shook his head. He hadn't thought that she would find anything out; it would have been good if she had, but he hadn't expected it. Eames was too guarded and Ariadne didn't know what to look for. There had been very little chance she could have gotten him to reveal anything useful.

 _[Just enjoy your afternoon.]_ he texted her back. He hoped that she was planning on keeping Eames in her sight until dinner. They'd already agreed upon a time and place, and Arthur took a long, hot shower in preparation.

After towel drying from head to toe, he looked at himself in the mirror, giving long, hard consideration to leaving the pomade out of his hair. But he didn't want to show his hand or completely freak Eames out just before their job, so in the end he slicked his hair back the same as always, put on a crisp white shirt, a nice dark pair of trousers with a matching vest, and a tasteful tie. He generally dressed more neatly in the dream-share than he did in reality -- high collars and tight ties didn't bind his throat in his dreams the way they did while waking -- but they were meeting at a nice restaurant, and he didn't want to be underdressed.

He really needn't have worried about that. Ariadne looked nice but understated, as usual, in slim black and red, with a lovely patterned silk scarf. And Eames was wearing....

"Oh, God, is that paisley?"

Eames smirked at Arthur, though there was something in his eyes that didn't quite lighten. "Come now, Arthur. It has been quite some while since last I assaulted your eyes with that dread print. It was high time."

"I'm not complaining," Arthur said stiffly, because it wasn't so much the paisley pattern that he found offensive; it was more the fact that the shirt was _puce_ , an appalling shade that somehow managed to totally clash with the brown of Eames' suit. "I suppose I should be grateful that you're not wearing tweed."

"Nothing wrong with tweed," Eames said mildly, pulling out Ariadne's chair for her.

Arthur didn't argue. Not because he agreed, but because Eames, despite the puce paisley shirt, looked good. His slacks accentuated the tight firmness of his ass, and Arthur realized that he was _looking at Eames' ass_. But, well, this wasn't the first time he'd done so -- it was just the first time he'd been willing to admit it to himself.

Eames shot him a sharp glance at his silence, and Arthur quickly met his eyes. He expected a smirk, or at least a questioning look, but Eames just frowned slightly and moved to sit down.

"Do you guys mind if I choose the wine?" Ariadne asked, grabbing for the list. The restaurant Eames had picked for them to meet at was significantly higher class than the one they had eaten at the night before, and Arthur was already wincing in advance, even though they all three of them had plenty of money. At least, Arthur knew that he and Ariadne did; and Eames only tended to gamble when he was low on funds, which he shouldn't be just yet. It had only been two months since they had gotten paid for the Fischer job, after all.

"Choose away," Eames said magnanimously, and he was smiling, his face creasing in the familiar lines, but Arthur was still pretty sure that this expression wasn't reaching his eyes, suspected that it might just be a very good act. As much as he would have liked to believe otherwise....

Arthur was staring at Eames, he knew, and in another moment the man was going to call him on it. "Did you and Ariadne have a nice lunch?" he asked, grabbing his napkin and placing it in his lap in order to have something to do with his hands.

"We did," Eames replied, smiling at the girl as she spoke to the waiter. And Arthur was pretty sure that this time it was a sincere expression. "It was lovely, as was the company."

"What did you do after?" Arthur asked curiously. The two had arrived at the restaurant together, but he didn't know whether that was coincidence, or whether they had spent the time between together.

"Went to the park, fed the ducks, held hands."

Ariadne cut Eames off with a very unladylike snort. "Don't listen to him, Arthur. Somehow he convinced me to go back to the suite with him and we went over the blueprints for the club. Then we had to rush to get ready to get here on time."

"Sorry," Eames apologized to her. "Next time we'll feed the ducks, yes?"

"Sure, but no hand-holding." Ariadne grinned at him. "I shave too regularly to play a good beard."

"Excuse me?" Eames slumped back in his chair, his eyebrows raised, mouth rounded. Arthur fought the urge to laugh.

"It's okay," Ariadne soothed, reaching and grabbing Eames' hand. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed, and the wine hadn't even arrived yet. Arthur thought that they were either in for a very pleasant or a very awkward evening. "Arthur already knew."

And _that_ was a flat out lie, or at least he hadn't known before she had told him, but Arthur wasn't going to call her on it. At least she had the good graces not to look over and meet his eyes when she uttered this falsehood.

Eames' jaw was working and yet he didn't seem to have anything to say. Arthur reflected on the fact that it would take a _very_ heterosexual male -- or, he supposed, a very adamant lesbian -- not to find those lips alluring.

And Arthur was neither of those things.

Perhaps fortunately, perhaps not, this was the point at which the wine arrived. They placed their orders, sipped the wine, and a silence that wasn't exactly uncomfortable fell over the table.

"You guys," Ariadne said, putting down her glass and fiddling with the stem, before glancing up at each of them in turn, her eyes dark and warm under even darker lashes. "Don't take this the wrong way, but... I kinda miss you both. I mean, I did. Missed you after the Fischer job. And I'm glad we're working together again. And I'm going to miss you both a lot once we're done. I don't want to be done."

Eames blinked at her a moment, then his brow furrowed. "Ariadne, love," he said, shooting Arthur a strange look. "I'm not trying to offend anyone here, either you or Arthur, but, really, you _can_ do better."

Arthur frowned, but it was in response to the odd glance Eames had given him, not the man's words. He tended to agree, considering that they were both thieves -- not always just in the dream-share, either -- and he definitely wasn't offended.

"Excuse you," Ariadne said. She sounded determined, though, not angered. "I think I'm a better judge of that than you are. You may both be..." she glanced about and lowered her voice, "Criminals.... But so am I, now, kind of." She sat back and took a drink of wine, her cheeks flushed as much with emotion as alcohol. "You're both good men with good hearts. And, anyway, it doesn't matter if I know better people, whether I have better friends, that doesn't mean I won't miss you when you're not around."

Arthur did think that Ariadne was placing far too much faith in both of them, but he also knew that he felt much the same way about her that she felt about them. He had missed her and would miss her again once they were done here. So he didn't really mind her saying these things.

What bothered him was the almost pained expression on Eames' face.

Taking pity on the other man, Arthur made an effort to steer conversation in a more innocuous direction. Asking Ariadne about her plans for the future, if and when she was returning to the States, where she was planning to live, where she was going to look for work. All subjects that they had avoided during the Fischer job, because then it had been all about work, it had all been professional, and none of them had thought that they would work together again, or that they might somehow, beyond expectation, become friends.

Trust Ariadne to force the issue. To make sure that they _did_ work together, and to make it clear to them both that she considered them friends.

She answered Arthur's questions easily enough, and didn't ask any of her own. She'd already tried to pump Arthur on how he had gotten into the business of extraction and found him completely reticent. And the middle of a restaurant wasn't a place to discuss either his or Eames' plans for the future, since these plans were more than likely to involve doing some very illegal things.

"I feel as though there has to be practical applications for the PASIV technology," Ariadne was saying grandly as dinner wound along and the level of wine in their third bottle dwindled. "A legitimate use for it. Besides military, of course. But I haven't figured it out yet."

"Let Cobb know if you do," Arthur said, refilling Eames' wineglass. They were all drinking more than they perhaps should with a job only a little more than twenty-four hours away, but they were having a good time. They were in good company, eating good food, and they were all going to be walking or cabbing it from the restaurant to their respective places of habitation once the meal was done.

Well, Arthur knew that he was having a good time, and it was obvious that Ariadne was. He _hoped_ that Eames was, that this was something that could compare favorably to the fantasy world that Eames had built for himself in his own subconscious. Arthur felt the unsubtle urge to compete with the projection of himself in Eames' dream, wanted to prove to the man that the projection was only a weak shadow of the real thing. He knew that he was flushed and was vaguely aware that he had somehow scooted his chair a little too close to Eames', so that their elbows knocked together when Arthur wielded his fork, but he couldn't bring himself to mind.

"Do you think Cobb misses it?" Ariadne asked curiously. "I had to do some fast talking to convince him to come for this job."

Arthur shook his head. "Last time I visited he didn't mention missing it, but you never know. He didn't want to come get involved in this job mainly because it meant leaving the kids, traveling out of the country, and then doing something borderline illegal. And yet he's still arriving tomorrow, right? And I doubt he's totally doing it out of concern for Eames. So, yeah, I think he misses it."

Ariadne was nodding, her expression comically serious. Eames was frowning, but he didn't say anything. He wasn't upset over Cobb's lack of concern for him, Arthur knew, but was instead offended by the idea that he couldn't handle himself in the dream-share, even when forging a slip of a girl and dealing with a suspected rapist.

Before he thought not to, Arthur reached over and placed his right hand comfortingly on Eames' left thigh. Realizing what he'd done, he paused a moment, very carefully didn't glance at Eames, squeezed the firm muscles under his palm, then retrieved his hand and used it to push his empty wine glass away. He was cutting himself off.

"We're going to keep in touch, aren't we?" Ariadne asked, reaching over and grabbing Eames' forearm, her slim fingers pale against the dark material of his jacket. Evidently Arthur wasn't the only one who got touchy-feely when drinking. "After this job is done?"

"Maudlin in your cups, love," Eames murmured, patting her hand with his free hand. Arthur dared to glance over and saw a softness to Eames' face, a flush to his cheeks that he hadn't witnessed since the last time he had seen Eames get drunk. The fondness in his eyes, though, was new. And Arthur was pleased to see it there, wasn't even jealous. Because he knew that Eames wasn't interested in Ariadne except as a colleague and possibly as a friend, if he was willing to allow her that label.

"I'm being serious," she insisted, and it was obvious that she was. "Eames, if you just up and vanish on me, I'll... I'll... I'll sic Arthur on you."

"A formidable threat," Eames rumbled, and even though he was grinning now, he wasn't joking. "Not to worry, Ariadne. I'll do my best to keep in touch. If you're going to continue to dabble in the dream-share, you _must_ work with the best. Which means me and Arthur."

Ariadne lit up at this. "Next time I have a job... I mean, _if_ I get another job, I'll be sure to contact both of you first."

"No working with second rate buffoons," Eames insisted, clasping Ariadne's hand. "Now it's _your_ turn to promise _me_."

"I promise," Ariadne said earnestly.

And, Arthur mused, tipping more wine into his glass despite his earlier resolution, sometimes it really could be that simple.

***

The next day Cobb arrived. Since Arthur had already sent him a majority of the information before he left the States, it didn't take much to bring him up to speed. So they were able to implement their plans the following day.

For all it had seemed a job set up specifically to end in disaster, the whole thing went off remarkably smoothly. Arthur had been strangely anxious about the college co-ed that Eames had been forging, a pretty little redheaded slip of a girl not even out of "her" teens. Because if the professor had drugged Eames in this forgery and gotten his hands on "her" before Arthur or anyone else could come to the rescue....

Arthur hadn't verbalized any of these fears, of course. Eames would have taken it as a personal insult, wouldn't have been at all complimented to know that Arthur was concerned over his hypothetical virtue.

At least Arthur hadn't been the only one. Ariadne had told Arthur more than once to keep a close eye on Eames as the forger did his work distracting the professor. Cobb was going to be the extractor while Arthur built the dream and Eames acted as the bait. If the professor was a date-rapist using drugs on his victims, one or another of them was going to find out.

And find out they had. But it was not what they'd expected.

They had meant to take the professor's thoughts back to that night in order to make it easier for Cobb to extract the information they needed. But what they had managed was a near perfect repeat of that evening, only with themselves included. And so, thanks to the professor's memory and his subconscious, they were able to place a face, if not a name, on the rough-edged patron who had been the one to cart Ariadne's schoolmate out of the club, presumably after being the one to dose her, although none of them saw him do so.

Of course, the professor hadn't known that he'd been seeing that. He'd thought that the girl had known the young man she left with, and had only been concerned that she had been a little too drunk to walk upright. Arthur disapproved on general principle, but he couldn't really blame the professor; he hadn't known the girl in question very well aside from the fact that she was a student, was under no obligation to watch over her or keep her safe.

Once they had all emerged from the dream-share and gotten the professor settled to safely sleep off the light sedative they had dosed him with, Ariadne was off to report to her classmate.

"I'll see if she wants us to try to do an extraction on her," she said pensively. She was glad that an innocent man had been _proven_ innocent, of course, but there was still the matter of the drugs and the possible rape. "See if we can figure out who the guy was."

"Here." Eames handed her a sheet of paper. Arthur caught a glimpse of a minimalistic but masterful sketch of a man's face and hair. Eames, in the redhead's skin, had been talking to the professor and had gotten a good look at the likely perp. And evidently while Arthur had been checking on the sleeping professor and collecting the PASIV device in preparation to leave, he had made up a quick mug shot.

Arthur didn't have to have seen the professor's projection of the guy in the dream-share to trust that this was an accurate rendering; Eames wouldn't have offered it up if it hadn't been.

"Thanks," Ariadne said, sounding surprised but accepting it readily enough.

"We should get going," Cobb said, running a hand over his dirty blond hair and grimacing.

"Let's meet back at the suite in a couple of hours," Arthur suggested. "Give Ariadne time to talk to the client."

So that was what they did.

"I really feel as though I wasn't needed," Cobb complained, as the three men sat in the room and waited for Ariadne to join them. Arthur couldn't blame him. Eames had ended up doing most of the work. All right, he had done _all_ of the work, aside from the creation of the dream. Not that any of them had been expecting that to happen.

"I'd like to apologize, but I can't," Eames said smoothly, his dark grey eyes fixed on Cobb, his hands clasped between his thick thighs. He didn't look unfriendly, but he was alert, on the watch. Arthur could tell that he still didn't trust Cobb, even though there hadn't been a sign of Mal in the dream nightclub.

"No, it's okay," Cobb said, shaking his head and smiling faintly. If he was put off by Eames' hard expression he didn't show it. Arthur was just glad that they were getting along. Eames hadn't seemed too pleased with Cobb by the end of the Fischer job; not that Arthur could blame him, after some of the things that had happened during, after Cobb's projection of Mal had almost wrecked the whole thing. "I suppose I should be glad that it came off so easily. It's not so much that I mind leaving the kids and flying all the way to Paris... it's more that I was kind of looking forward to performing an extraction again. It's been a while."

Arthur had something to say to that, he was sure, but just then the door of the hotel suite flew open and Ariadne stamped in. She looked... upset. Unsettled. Not angry, but not far from it.

"What's up?" Eames asked, before anyone else could, his brows rising.

"She knows him," Ariadne said. Her voice was flat but her eyes were flashing. "She recognized the drawing, she knows who he is, and she's not pressing any charges."

"So she's saying it wasn't rape?" Arthur asked, his own brows crawling toward his hairline. This was an unexpected development.

Ariadne flung her hands out helplessly. "She says he's her ex. She says that now she's pretty sure that she actually did get so drunk she blacked out. She says that even if she doesn't remember leaving with him, she's sure it was consensual." She sucked in a breath and let it out in an exasperated huff. "I guess she was just afraid it was the professor, and now that she knows it wasn't, she's okay with what happened."

"But we're still getting paid, right?" Eames, of course, was ever the pragmatist. Then again, this had been a fair amount of work and effort, and they had _flown Cobb in from the States_. Getting paid for all that was kind of important.

"Yeah." Ariadne folded her arms, and she wasn't exactly glaring at Eames, but she wasn't too far from it.

"Don't get me wrong," Eames said, with that charming grin that he was so good at. "I'm happy for the professor, that he's been exonerated, and I'm pleased that our girl has had her mind set at ease. But some clients, when the extraction doesn't prove what they expected, have been known to withhold payment."

Ariadne sighed and rolled her eyes, though not _at_ Eames, Arthur didn't think. Probably at the classmate who had hired them. "I already got the money, Eames, with a guarantee that I'd refund it if we couldn't perform the extraction. We did it, and so she's not getting it back. Though, to be fair, she didn't ask. I'll share it all out as soon as I get a chance to, tomorrow."

They were all pleased by that, and proud of Ariadne for being so forward-thinking and efficient.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that this teaches her a lesson about limiting her alcohol consumption in the future," Arthur said, trying not to sound as disapproving as he felt.

"Doubtful," Ariadne groaned, folding her arms and scowling at nothing in particular.

They were all a little out of sorts. Granted, the job had proved to be easy. They had gotten paid. Cobb would be able to return to his children quickly. They'd all gotten to spend a little time together; Cobb less so than the other three. The professor was innocent and the client no longer feared that she'd been raped even if she _did_ have questionable taste in boyfriends and extracurricular activities. All of these were good things.

But there were so many levels of dissatisfaction. They'd put all the work into creating the dream and Eames' redhead, had been so careful setting the mark up, and it had virtually been for nothing. Cobb had flown so far for what had been pretty much no reason at all. And now they were finished, and were going to be disbanding.

Maybe that was what was bothering Arthur the most. He felt bad for Cobb, leaving his kids and having nothing to do during the job. He sympathized over Ariadne's frustration with her classmate. Eames had come out of this the best, had played the largest part, and yet he had to be feeling a little less like a knight in shining armor than he had hoped. Arthur didn't mind having dreamed up the club -- it had proven to be essential for learning the truth -- but had hadn't had much else to do in the dream-share.

Now they were going to split up, go their separate ways, and the projection of Arthur was going to be spending more time with Eames than the real Arthur was.

And that was the _real_ issue, wasn't it. If anything, the projection of Arthur was _already_ seeing more of Eames.

Before the last couple of days, Arthur would never really have thought that he'd _want_ to spend time with Eames. Granted, he had found the man to be fascinating almost from the first time they had met, though it would have hurt him to admit that. But there were a lot of people that Arthur considered fascinating who he wouldn't have wanted to spend extended periods of time with. He wasn't sure when his opinion on Eames had changed, but he thought that it had started during the Fischer job and had definitely ballooned at some point during this past job. While he and Eames had been working almost one-on-one for the first time; not to leave out Ariadne and her contributions, of course.

"I'd normally suggest we go out for a celebratory drink," Eames was saying, his full lips quirked wryly to one side, "But all things taken into consideration, I hardly feel it's fitting."

"I dunno. I think I could use a drink," Ariadne frowned. "I've got no exes around here to worry about, not to mention two dangerous criminals to keep an eye on me."

Arthur and Eames exchanged a glance and Arthur couldn't help but grin. Ariadne had definitely lingered with relish over the word "criminals", and she already seemed to be getting over the worst of her ill humor.

"Hey," Cobb protested, planting his hands on his hips. "Make that _three_ dangerous criminals, Ariadne. I'll be there with you guys, just as soon as I contact the airline and see if I can get an earlier flight home."

"Cobb," Ariadne cooed at him, and they were all smiling now, whether at the promise of alcohol or the feeling of camaraderie in the room, like they had never shared during the Fischer job with all of its intensity and importance. " _You_ are not a dangerous criminal anymore. _You_ are a _Daddy_."

Cobb stared at her a moment, then laughed. Arthur couldn't remember the last time he had heard Cobb laugh, honestly laugh. Since before Mal had died, certainly. It was a good sound. "Ariadne, you _know_ that a father is a more fearsome thing than a hardened criminal, right?"

Ariadne opened her mouth, but then closed it again. Evidently she had nothing to say to that.

"He's got a point," Arthur agreed, placing a hand on Ariadne's upper back and steering her toward the door. "Cobb, you can use my laptop if you need it, okay? We'll be down at the _Reve Eveille_ , just a block to the east."

Cobb nodded, already focused on his phone.

"Come on, Eames," Ariadne insisted, reaching out and snagging his arm, as though she was going to drag him along forcefully if he didn't intend to come with them.

"Yes, yes," he purred, patting her hand. "I'm coming." He met Arthur's eyes over her head and Arthur couldn't read the expression on his face, but he smiled anyway.

Eames looked surprised. He didn't smile, but his dark gaze did lighten a little.

***

Arthur had almost hoped that there might have been an opportunity for heavy drinking.... And Ariadne had already told Arthur that Eames tended to be talkative when he was drunk.... But, like with the job, what happened was not what he might have expected.

What _happened_ was that Ariadne had two drinks, Cobb showed up in time for one, and then Cobb walked Ariadne home. Ariadne had class the next day and Cobb had managed to get himself a very early flight.

"Don't you dare leave town without saying goodbye," Ariadne said fiercely, and she was talking to both Arthur and Eames, but she was glaring at Eames.

"Yes, love," he promised, smiling with a certain strange sadness in his eyes. There was enough truth in his voice that no one disbelieved him, but they all three of them gave him a close stare -- even Cobb.

"We'll meet in the suite tomorrow," Arthur said firmly. "At the usual time." And he made sure that Eames agreed to this before he walked Ariadne and Cobb out of the bar.

It felt weird to hug Cobb goodbye, but it would have felt weirder not to. "Take care," Arthur said. "And tell the kids I said hi."

"Phillipa wants to know when you're going to visit next," Cobb informed him. "And so, of course, James echoed the sentiment." He didn't seem to be hinting that Arthur should visit... or that he shouldn't. It didn't seem like anything more nor less than a statement of fact.

"I have no idea," Arthur replied honestly. "But I'll try to make it soon."

Cobb nodded. "Good."

And then he and Ariadne both left and Arthur turned and went back into the bar.

"Arthur?" It was almost painful, seeing how surprised Eames was when he rejoined him, before he could hide his honest response. "I-- I thought you'd gone."

Arthur shook his head and answered simply. "No." He sat down in the booth that the four of them had commandeered when they had first arrived, which Eames hadn't yet exited. Arthur had been taking a chance, spending a few minutes outside with Cobb and Ariadne like that, but he'd been at the front of the building and he hadn't figured that Eames would have snuck out the back. Fortunately, he had been right.

The waitress brought over two drinks and Arthur took one without calling Eames on the fact that he hadn't been expected Arthur to return. Eames didn't say anything either, but then, he really couldn't protest. Not without making a somewhat awkward admission.

"To a job well done," Arthur said, lifting his pilfered drink. After a moment, Eames touched his own to it lightly, with a crystalline sound.

"I feel as though it could have gone better," Eames mumbled into his glass, his lids lowered, eyes hidden behind his long lashes.

"I doubt it could have gone more smoothly," Arthur protested. "You were right there, making things happen. Aside from me creating the dream, you did pretty much everything."

"And that's no fun, is it?" Eames frowned. "What's the use of having amazing people to work with if they're not given their chance to shine?" He looked up and met Arthur's eyes. "Brilliant job on the bar, by the way. If you hadn't dreamt it so well, I doubt my little redhead could have triggered the professor's memories of that night."

Arthur nodded, not refusing this compliment. "And Ariadne helped me to create the dream," he said mildly. "So, you see? Even though you ended up doing most of the work, being key, we all got to do our part. Well, almost all of us. Cobb was the only one left out. And I don't think he minds too much. As much as he loves his kids, I'm pretty sure that he doesn't mind the break from them. He'd never admit it, but most parents need at least a short vacation from time to time."

"He got to see Ariadne again, too," Eames mused, finishing off his drink a little too quickly and licking his lips. "Is there something there, d'you think?"

Arthur frowned, giving it some serious thought. "No..." he eventually replied. "I thought there might be, but now I'm pretty sure there's not. She's too young for him. And too smart. She knows him too well now to fall in love with him."

"Ah." Eames tilted his head. "But girls do love a fixer-upper of a man, don't they."

Arthur grinned, noticing but ignoring the way that this expression brought a light to Eames' eyes at the same time it turned his expression grim. He thought that he understood this mixed reaction, somewhat, but he'd have been hard pressed to put it into words. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

"Some do," he allowed. "But I'm inclined to think that Ariadne is too bright to fall into that trap. And Cobb is doing better now, but he's far beyond being fixable. We all know that, including him."

"Mm." Eames didn't seem convinced, though what part he was unconvinced by, Arthur didn't know. He was obviously disinclined to pursue the conversation, though. "I'm just glad that a certain lovely lady didn't show up at the club."

Arthur shook his head, even though he fully agreed. "No, there was only one lovely lady there," he said, without thinking, only realizing after the words left his mouth how flirty they had sounded.

He and Eames exchanged a quick glance, then both looked away even more quickly. Arthur probably could have followed that terrible line up with something, but it would only have made things worse. There were all kinds of things that Eames could have said in return, but he chose not to. Arthur thought that he was grateful for this.

"So what are you doing after our meeting tomorrow?" Arthur asked, trying to flag down the waitress, as much to avoid Eames' gaze as because he felt the need for another drink. "Any plans now that you're not fleeing the country?"

Eames was silent so long that Arthur gave up on the waitress and glanced over. He was giving Arthur a strangely intent stare, his brow furrowed, and Arthur frowned back.

"What?" Arthur demanded, trying not to sound aggressive.

"Since when do you want to know what I'm up to after a job?" Eames asked, and he didn't sound angry or confrontational, just confused. Well, his tone was maybe a little harsher than usual, but he didn't seem to be trying to start a fight or anything.

Arthur shrugged, hoping that he didn't look as uncomfortable as he felt. He couldn't very well tell Eames the truth, that he wanted to keep an eye on the man after this job, so that they didn't lose the best forger in the dream-share to his own dreams, so that he and Ariadne didn't lose a _friend_.

So, instead, he replied with a portion of the truth. "Since now," he replied honestly, meeting Eames' eyes. "People can change, Eames."

Eames blinked rapidly for a moment, his long lashes catching the dim light of the bar, and Arthur pretended not to notice the hand that Eames slipped into his pocket for a moment. If the man used a totem, now would be the time he would want to check it. Arthur could sympathize, but he knew that he was awake right now.

Instead of pressing the issue, Arthur ordered a couple more drinks from the waitress that had finally approached their table. This establishment served food as well, but Arthur wasn't feeling hungry. He thought that it might not be a bad idea for Eames to order something, gain back some of the weight he had lost, but the forger didn't seem inclined to do so.

Once that was done, he turned back to Eames, who was still giving him a strange look.

"People do change," Eames said slowly, licking his lips. Arthur had to _force_ himself not to watch the slide of his pink tongue over the plush curves, keeping his gaze on Eames' eyes. "But I could safely say that you hadn't changed since we first met. I _could_ have said that, up until this job. There's been something... something about the last few days...." His brow furrowed even more deeply, and Arthur wished that he could erase the expression from the man's face, but that would involve tipping too much of his hand.

"That's true," he said, because it was.

Eames stared at him, raised a hand to rub at his nose and upper lip in his usual tell. Arthur was always surprised that Eames hadn't trained himself out of it, but maybe he only indulged it when he was with people that he trusted. "Is it Ariadne, then?"

That wasn't a question Arthur had expected. He didn't think that he cared for the tone Eames had asked it in. Not lewd, not even suggestive. It was more careful than that, almost blank.

"It's." Arthur frowned, trying to choose his words with care, not wanting Eames to get the wrong idea. Well, Eames evidently had the wrong idea already. Arthur didn't want to exacerbate that. "It's something that Ariadne said to me. It's... realizing that we're not just colleagues. That we've somehow become friends."

Eames accepted his fresh drink and scowled down into it as though it held all the answers to this odd conversation. "Friends with Ariadne?"

"All of us," Arthur pressed. He didn't feel that Eames was fishing. He just wanted to know where he stood, and this made it easier for Arthur to put it out there. He was grateful, because he didn't think that he could have introduced this subject out of the blue, but Eames had practically set it up for him. He wasn't going to wimp out or backpedal. "You and me and Ariadne."

Eames raised his eyes, meeting Arthur's gaze for a moment before looking away. Arthur wasn't sure what that was in Eames' dark eyes; confusion or disbelief. Either way, he didn't care for it.

"Ah," was all the forger said.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, telling himself he was _not_ squinting like Cobb. "You're different too," he accused, and now he didn't really try to soften his tone.

Eames gave him a startled look, before picking up his drink and raising it to his lips. It was all too obvious that he was stalling for time. Arthur felt like he could use a bracing shot of his own drink, but he kept his gaze focused on Eames, not giving the man an out of any sort.

"Perhaps," Eames said, finally, and Arthur could have throttled him.

He wanted to push. He wanted to demand to know _why_. He already knew the ways in which Eames was different. He was aware of the strange little retreat Eames had built for himself in the dream-share with a projection of Arthur himself. But, again, he couldn't tell the _why_ of these things.

But he was going to have to convince Eames to drink a lot more before he went fishing. He didn't want to put the man on alert, and he knew that if he pushed too hard, Eames would run. Eames would feel very bad about breaking his promise to Ariadne, would probably leave her a contrite voicemail or text or something, but that wouldn't stop him leaving.

Arthur was just about to suggest they move to a different bar, one where the drinks were stronger and cheaper, and the atmosphere a little less savory but more conducive to exclusivity, when Eames finished his current drink and scooted out of the booth.

"Well, I'm for bed," he announced softly, as though they weren't right in the middle of a conversation, as though Arthur hadn't asked an indirect question that Eames had yet to answer.

Arthur wondered whether Eames was going to head right for the PASIV device and his cozy little fake apartment in his fake little world. He felt an irrational flare of jealousy toward the projection of himself that Eames was going to be holding, talking to, spending time with, when he wasn't wiling to give the _real_ Arthur that much. And he felt a not at all irrational surge of anger toward Eames, who could have sat here, talking to Arthur, getting drunk with him, but who was instead taking the coward's way out and leaving.

And yet Arthur couldn't protest. Couldn't grab Eames' wrist and demand that he stay. Because then Eames really would spook. It was as much a catch-22 as Arthur's dilemma involving the projection of himself that he couldn't protest because he _shouldn't_ know about its existence.

"You'll be there tomorrow," he blurted, seeking verification.

Eames gave him an unreadable look, and Arthur hated that he couldn't tell what Eames was thinking. He seemed to be searching for something, and Arthur gave him his sternest expression.

"Don't look so constipated, darling," Eames said, his lips quirking in a grin that looked real. "I'll be there with bells on."

And for a moment things almost felt like normal, like they had used to be. But then Eames swept out of the bar before Arthur could reply and Arthur knew, he _knew_ that Eames was going to be cuddling with the faux Arthur in the dream-share. And there was nothing whatsoever that was normal about that.

Arthur rose as well and headed for his own hotel. He thought about following Eames into the dream-share. Waiting until the two inhabitants of the apartment were out and wiring it for sound. But he didn't think he could stand to watch, to hear Eames being all domestic with a weak copy of himself. Just the thought of it put a lump in his throat. And he had to give _that_ some serious consideration as well.

His cell buzzed in his pocket, and Arthur pulled it out. He was surprised to see that it was Cobb, and he answered immediately, hoping that there wasn't anything wrong, that the man wasn't going to have any trouble leaving the country and getting back to his children.

"Cobb?"

"So, what's up with Eames?" Cobb asked point blank.

"Are you at the airport?" It didn't sound urgent, and it had been less than an hour since Arthur had hugged the man goodbye outside the bar. He hadn't been expecting to hear from Cobb at _least_ until he got back to the States, if not much longer than that.

"Yeah, I've got about half an hour before my flight boards. Are you going to answer my question?"

Arthur was, not to put too fine a point on it, stunned. He wasn't used to this new Cobb, someone who noticed things that didn't pertain to him, someone who looked outside his own little maelstrom of angst and guilt. He'd forgotten the friend he used to have before Mal died, before he and Cobb became simply co-workers.

He's forgotten the Dominic Cobb who cared.

"I really can't," he said, and before Cobb could complain, he added, "I don't _know_ what's up with Eames."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and Arthur could hear tinny sounds of an airport. "I tried quizzing Ariadne," Cobb finally said, and he sounded thoughtful. "She said about the same thing you just said. She _did_ tell me you were holding something back from her, though."

Arthur grimaced.

"What do _you_ think is going on?" he asked, because he honestly wanted Cobb's input and not just because he was deflecting. "You spent more time with him during the Fischer job than either Ariadne or I did."

Cobb was silent again. "I wasn't.... I wasn't really paying much attention to other people's problems at the time," he finally said slowly. "But I didn't get the sense that there was anything wrong, anything going on then."

Arthur sighed heavily. "Yeah, that's what Ariadne and I thought too. That it was recent."

"So you really don't know what's wrong?" Cobb asked.

"Not as such, no," Arthur admitted, scowling because he hated saying it out loud. But. "But I have an idea of what I can do to find out."

"Excellent." Cobb actually sounded pleased and enthusiastic. Again, Arthur boggled over the change in the man, and he thought that maybe he had been wrong, that maybe Cobb was fixable after all. Though, if he were, it would be Phillipa and James who affected that change. Not a new love, and definitely not Ariadne, as wonderful as the young woman was. "I'm confident you'll have this cracked in no time."

"Well." And he was absolutely _not_ flushing at the complete faith that he heard in Cobb's voice. "Maybe not that quickly. This is going to require subtlety."

"You're right." Cobb sounded thoughtful, and Arthur sort of wished he wasn't leaving, even though he knew that he was better off doing this on his own, without anyone else possibly mucking things up. Arthur worked well with others, obviously, or he wouldn't be a point man. But this was something deeply personal, and so he didn't want anyone else involved. Not even Ariadne or Cobb.

"Keep me updated, okay?" Cobb was saying, as Arthur's brain began buzzing with plans and inspiration. He really did have a good idea of what he was going to do. He just needed to make the opportunity to put his ideas into play. "Or at least tell me the end result."

"I will," Arthur assured him. Because he would consider that to be sharing, not checking in. And because it was nice to know that people -- Ariadne and Cobb -- cared. About him, and about Eames.

"I think you and Eames would be good for each other," Cobb said, or that's what Arthur thought he said, but then he hung up before Arthur could demand clarification. Arthur stared at his phone for a moment, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.

But he wasn't going to call Cobb back. Instead he closed his mouth, shut off his phone, slid it into his pocket, then entered his hotel.

And if he was smiling by the time he let himself into his room, he could blame it on the warmth of the alcohol and the knowledge of a job finished well. Not... other things. Certainly not anticipation.

All right. Maybe _some_ anticipation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Fischer job, some of the former team come together once again, but there is something off about Eames. Can Arthur and Ariadne find out what's going on and can Arthur figure out how to fix it?

Evidently Eames' definition of "being there with bells on" meant showing up almost twenty minutes late, looking either hungover or as though he hadn't slept since Arthur had last seen him at the bar.

Arthur eyed him narrowly. Perhaps Eames had _not_ spent his night sunk deeply in the dream-share, snuggling with his projection of Arthur, then. Because if he had done so then one would think that he would have appeared _more_ rested, not less.

"Eames, you look like hell," Ariadne informed him with a surprising lack of tact, but she softened the words by wrapping her arms around his chest and hugging him tightly as soon as he was through the door and inside the suite.

Eames looked startled and a bit discomfitted, even though he hugged her in return. He met Arthur's eyes over Ariadne's head and seemed even more confounded by the fact that Arthur was smiling fondly at them both.

"I'm glad that you came," Ariadne added as she loosed Eames. She patted his chest a bit awkwardly, but there was nothing awkward about the bright smile that she shot up at the man.

"Well, I hardly had any choice in the matter, did I?" Eames said, the light tone of his voice softening the potential sharpness of his words. "You made me promise, and threatened to sic Arthur on me."

Ariadne grinned at him unrepentantly. "So I did."

Arthur did his best to rein in his own smirk, not wanting Eames to think he was being laughed at. Eames might have expressed some doubts as to whether the three of them were friends, but the fact was that he had come at Ariadne's behest completely of his own will. If he'd decided to cut and run, there wouldn't have been much either of the other two could have done. Not without proving themselves to be the busybodies that they were.

That Arthur was, anyway. He had returned to his hotel room the night before, replied in the negative to an email from Ariadne that asked if he'd gotten anything out of Eames at the bar, and then, in a long overdue attack of common sense, had set about looking into Eames' actions in the period after the Fischer job, before he had come to Paris.

Arthur could have kicked himself for not doing this sooner. They had all been busy with the job they had just finished, it was true, but the fact of the matter was that Arthur had been so involved in the _symptoms_ , in his illicit knowledge of the dream world that Eames had created for himself, that he had forgotten to look into the possible _cause_ for this retreat.

And no sooner had he started looking than he had found it. Or, at least, he thought he had. Certainly there had been one major event in Eames' life between the Fischer job and the job Ariadne had called them in for. Arthur found it hard to understand how it had culminated in a projection of himself living with but not sleeping with Eames in a curiously empty but comfortable dreamscape.... But as he already knew intimately, from his daily work in other people's minds, that the human conscious and subconscious were strange things. Most often logic didn't even enter into it. Lucid dreaming was still dreaming, and the mind could play strange tricks.

But at least now Arthur had a better idea of what they were dealing with, and he felt more sure of himself, more certain of his path. He knew what he intended to do, he knew how he was going to do it, and if he wasn't quite sure he knew _why_ he was going to be doing it, well, he at least had a pretty good idea.

He had a strong suspicion that he already knew why; that he was just lost in a haze of denial. It was going to take him a little longer to work through it, he thought. Instead of some sudden realization, this was more a slow awakening. And that was fine with him.

"So there's nothing new to report," Ariadne was saying, as Eames went to the small kitchenette that the suite boasted, making them some tea. Evidently she was taking the whole debriefing things more seriously than Arthur was. Well, he was a little distracted. And, after all, this had been Ariadne's job from the get-go. So it only made sense for her to head the final meeting, casual as it was.

Arthur had already cleaned up most of the physical items, shredding papers, packing the miscellaneous PASIV equipment, cleaning off the table and bed. He'd been about to get to the kitchenette when Ariadne had stopped him. He was glad now, and understood why she had interrupted, because Eames making tea meant that he was planning on being here a while.

"Your classmate isn't getting back together with that bounder, is she?" Eames asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Ariadne shrugged and flopped down on the sofa. "Not that I know of. But now that the job is done, I don't plan on keeping tabs on her personal life. She approached me, not the other way around. It's enough for me now to know she doesn't think it was rape and that she's not asking for the money back."

"And that the professor has been exonerated," Arthur added, sitting beside Ariadne. There was a single chair in the small living area, but that was Eames' seat; had been since before Arthur had arrived here. "Although, I kind of have to wonder what's going on there, if your classmate thought him capable of drugging and raping her."

Ariadne frowned. "That, I don't know," she said slowly. "He's always seemed decent enough to me, even though I don't deal with him much. Maybe a little overly friendly, but not in a perverted way. Well, I mean, he's French." She sighed and shrugged again. "I'll keep an eye on him, as long as I'm still here in Paris. I really do think we're through with this job, though."

Eames muttered something, but even though the suite was not large, he was far enough away that neither of them could make it out. They exchanged a glance, then Ariadne raised her voice.

"So, Eames. Where are you headed now that we're done here?"

Arthur was pretty sure she'd asked this before, but maybe she'd get a more honest reply now. He hoped so.

"I don't really have anything planned," Eames said slowly, busy with the tea. It was a hazy grey day outside, hardly as inviting as the rain in Eames' dream world, and Arthur thought that the tea already smelled delicious. Eames was a master of the craft. Also, his broad shoulders looked amazing under the sleek black shirt he was wearing, tapering down to his waist and then that firm ass under the dark trousers....

Arthur averted his eyes before his thoughts could become inappropriate, entirely aware that it was already too late for that. He felt surprisingly unrepentant about that fact.

"No plans?" Ariadne, not surprisingly, pounced on this immediately. "Does that mean you're staying here in Paris? We could hang out!"

Eames turned and gave her an incredulous look. "I'm quite sure you could find any number of pursuits far more interesting than 'hanging out' with me." Then he shook his head. "At any rate, I'm sorry to disappoint, love, but I've already rented out a little villa down south, about an hour away from Marseille, on the coast."

Arthur and Ariadne exchanged a second glance.

"Um, Eames, in most parts of the _universe_ , that is what people would call having plans," Ariadne informed him, her voice desert dry.

"I thought that you meant in regards to dream work," Eames protested, convincing no one, as he brought over three mugs of steaming tea then settled into his chair, joining them.

Arthur did thank Eames, but Ariadne spoke over him. "What about the ducks, Eames? I thought we were going to make a date to go and feed the ducks."

"The ducks will get by," Eames said, his tone firm even though his expression was a bit sheepish. "Don't fret on their account."

"Then what about on _my_ account?" Ariadne huffed, scowling at him as though she meant it. She wrapped her slim hands around her mug and fixed him with a suddenly serious look. "I was really looking forward to spending some time with you outside of work, Eames. Whether you want to believe that or not."

Eames' mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and Arthur felt some flaring of heat at certain points of his body; his temples, the nape of his neck, his groin.... If he hadn't already been aware of finding Eames sexually attractive, he certainly would be now, he thought, and it was a remarkably easy reality to allow into his head.

"Well, what about Arthur, then?" Eames finally ended up asking, and Arthur was pretty sure he didn't mean to sound quite as sullen as he did.

"We're not talking about Arthur, we're talking about you," Ariadne replied tartly. Then, perhaps recognizing that she was putting Eames too much on the spot and risking chasing him off, she sighed and sank back into the sofa cushions. "Can I at least get a raincheck?"

"Yes, of course," Eames said agreeably enough, and his smile actually looked sincere, as far as Arthur could tell. He certainly _hoped_ that Eames meant that. "The very next time I'm in Paris, we shall go and feed the ducks together."

"What about you, Arthur?" Ariadne asked, evidently placated by this promise, and by the fact that Eames sounded as though he meant it. "What are you doing next?"

"I haven't made any firm plans," Arthur replied evenly, and it was the truth. Until he had known where Eames was headed, he hadn't been able to make any plans. Now, thanks to Ariadne's prying, he did know, and he only needed the opportunity to make his travel arrangements.

One way or another, he was going to get this resolved. Sooner rather than later. A month and a half was too long already, and Eames couldn't go on like this. It was sure to end badly if Arthur let him continue unchecked. There were plenty of examples in the world of the dream-share. Mal had been incepted, it was true, but she had also been an intelligent, strong-willed woman, one who shouldn't have come to question what was dream and what was reality. And, of course, Arthur would never forget the example of Fields. If one wasn't careful, it was all too easy to become lost. And Eames seemed to have tossed care to the wind.

"Hm." Eames was giving him a funny look over the rim of his mug. Arthur hesitated to call it suspicious, but it certainly wasn't trusting.

Well, Eames was a smart man. He might have no idea what Arthur was planning, but it wouldn't be surprising to find that he was aware that Arthur was up to _something_.

In fact, Arthur would have been disappointed in Eames if he _hadn't_ realized that Arthur was up to something. He was very glad, though, that Eames couldn't know _what_ it was. Because if he'd had an inkling, he'd never had mentioned where he was heading to Ariadne where Arthur could hear. Or probably at all.

"Perhaps Arthur could help you feed the ducks," Eames was saying to Ariadne. He had a solemn look on his face but a bit of a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. It was nice, seeing the Eames that he remembered, Arthur thought, even though it definitely underlined how much the man had changed. Eames might have been abrasive, defensive, and occasionally downright obnoxious, but he was also full of life and energy. To see him sit so quiet and so still all the time was more than a little disturbing.

Ariadne glanced at Arthur, where he sat next to her. "Maybe," she said unconvincingly. Arthur was pretty sure that she knew he'd be following Eames as soon as he left Paris, and so there would be no walks with her in the park in his future, but she wouldn't say anything, wouldn't give him away. Because she was just as concerned about Eames as Arthur was.

"I'll check my calendar," he said, giving her a small grin. "Pencil in _ducks_ if it looks as though I have an empty slot."

Ariadne loosed a scoffing exhalation. Eames actually laughed, short and soft, but he was grinning widely and it was good to see.

"You do that," Ariadne said dryly, though she reached over and squeezed Arthur's knee as if in apology for the tone. "Meanwhile, I'll be busy _not_ holding my breath."

Arthur nodded in approval. "That's a sound plan."

Ariadne rolled her eyes, then smiled and shook her head, gazing into the depths of her empty mug. "I will miss you guys," she said quietly. "Honestly."

"We'll miss you too," Arthur said, because it was the truth. "Right, Eames?"

"Of course." And he sounded as though he meant it, but there was something else, something harder and darker to his tone. Arthur couldn't figure it out, and he didn't think that he liked it. It wasn't that he thought Eames was lying. Perhaps it was more that it was too true to be tolerable.

After this moment of painful honesty, as though by silent consensus, the three of them sat and chatted about largely inconsequential things. The weather here in Paris, what the weather was likely to be at the coast, how much Ariadne would like to take some time off of school to tour the rest of France....

"Wish I could come with you," she told Eames mournfully. "I know I'm here for school, and that's fine; this is still amazing and not something I ever thought I'd do while I was growing up. But just a little break to see the rest of the country...."

"Well, you're independently wealthy now," Arthur reminded her. "Next time you have a break, do whatever you want."

She scowled at him. "Do you think I haven't thought of that?" She sighed. "It sounds good. But what's the fun in doing something like that alone? I'd want to travel with someone else, someone I could enjoy spending time with and making memories with."

Arthur nodded. He understood that. He might even have been willing to be that someone, if asked, but Eames needed him more. Whether the man knew it or not, and it was Eames that Arthur _wanted_ to spend his time with.

One way or another.

Eames looked... somber. Unhappy. But he didn't argue, couldn't argue. Neither did he get up and leave the hotel suite, as Arthur half thought he might. He did get up, but only to make more tea. Arthur arched a brow, sharing the tail end of this expression with Ariadne. She looked equally confounded.

Then it hit him. Eames was afraid, Arthur realized suddenly. Afraid that if he left before the other two, they would sit here and talk about _him_.

Well, afraid and _aware_ , since that was exactly what they would have done, what they still might do if he caved and left before they did.

Arthur felt bad for Eames, but he was also glad. And he didn't feel _very_ bad. He and Ariadne had every right to be concerned. Eames was acting differently, he was losing weight, and he was subtly resisting all their attempts to help him, or at least to discover the cause of these changes.

The fact that Arthur knew about Eames' little world in the dream-share didn't factor in. Unless Arthur had slipped up -- and he was almost certain he had not -- there was no way Eames could know that Arthur had been snooping around in his internal retreat. Of course, Arthur didn't make the mistake of thinking that he would be able to get away with it again.

No, he had something else entirely in mind for his third invasion.

That could wait, though. Right now all three of them were holding to the illusion of being sociable. The pretense of debriefing had been abandoned long ago. There just wasn't much to say about this job. It had gone as smoothly as could be expected and Arthur was glad it was over. He was less glad that the three of them would be splitting up, but that couldn't be helped, and he wasn't going to be able to make his move until they'd all gone their separate ways.

Even though Arthur knew that she had wanted to speak to him in private, Ariadne was the first to give in and cede defeat.

"I'm sorry, guys," she said, and she looked it. "I've got to get going. I've been putting off studying for a big exam, and I don't dare leave it any longer."

"You most certainly should not," said Eames, with all the overbearing judgment of a man who had earned his degrees and not forged them. Oh, Arthur knew that Eames was very well educated. But he also knew that not a single one of his educational papers was actually earned. Eames was smart but he hated to adhere to any rules that someone else tried to impress on him.

Ariadne pulled a sour face at Eames, then popped up off the sofa and into the startled forger's lap before he could react.

"I'm going to miss you, Eames," she said again, flinging her arms around him and giving him an awkward but enthusiastic hug.

"Glurk," he replied with some lack of eloquence, but that might have had more to do with the way her arms were tightly ringing his neck than her weight on his thighs and chest. She was a tiny slip of a thing, after all.

Arthur rose, collecting the empty mugs and taking them over to the kitchenette area. If Ariadne was going to hug him in a similar manner he wanted to at least be standing when she did so. He really had no problem with it. He just... well. He hadn't thought her to be so physically affectionate, but they were both worried about Eames, and Ariadne had no way of knowing when she was going to be seeing the forger again.

"You're going to keep in touch, right, Eames?" Ariadne was prompting, seeming entirely disinclined to vacate his lap before receiving a reply in the positive.

"And what will you do with me if I say no, then?" Eames asked, and he actually sounded like himself in this moment, light and affectionate and teasing. It was a nice moment, even though Arthur couldn't help the twinge of jealousy he felt over the fact that it had been Ariadne to bring this to the fore.

But, then again, it wasn't a projection of _Ariadne_ that Eames was living with in the dream-share, now was it?

Arthur sighed, at himself really, and decided that he was going to take the time between leaving this hotel suite and entering Eames' villa -- because that was part of his plan -- to seriously think about what he wanted and what he intended. It was only fair to Eames. And it was important. Cobb might blithely spout off about the need to work with what one found in someone's subconscious, but that was business. In matters of emotion and the heart, Arthur was well aware that specificity was key. He wasn't going to risk hurting Eames through his interference; if he couldn't make things _better_ , then he had no right doing anything at all.

"Arthur!" And there was Ariadne, hugging him as expected and he hugged her back, because he couldn't possibly not. "Eames says he's leaving this afternoon," she told him, stepping back and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She was lovely and charming, and in another life Arthur could have easily fallen in love with her, he thought. But she was headed on a different path than his own, she didn't seem to be at all inclined to fall in love with _him_ , and, most importantly, _she was not Eames_.

And that last kind of clinched it, didn't it. Arthur could examine his emotions and intentions all he wanted, but his mind and his heart already knew what he wanted. Even if it seemed to make no sense on the surface of it.

"Are you going to be able to have dinner with me?" Ariadne was asking. Her eyes were wide but not guileless. He knew her well enough by now to be able to read her expression. Her face was saying to him that he could tell her yes now, as a smoke screen, and then cancel if he needed to be tailing Eames or something. He could also tell that she would like it if he _could_ have dinner with her, so that they could discuss their erstwhile colleague.

"I think so," he replied, because a few hours' delay wouldn't hurt his plans, and he would need some extra time to work things out. Both in his own mind and in reality.

"Great!" She swooped forward and squeezed him again, but more briefly. "Come to my place at eight if you can make it, and text, email, or call me if you can't, okay?"

That was one of the best things about Ariadne; her flexibility. As well as her intuitiveness. Arthur hadn't doubted Cobb when he had said he'd never seen anyone pick up building in the dream-share so quickly, but this had proved to be true in many other aspects of their dealings with one another as well. Arthur worked well with Cobb because of all their years together, but he worked well with Ariadne because in a lot of ways their thought processes were similar, and they were both sharp enough to make the jump in the ways that they were not.

And now they were both dedicated to the cause of discovering what was going on with Eames. The man had never stood a chance. Arthur might almost have pitied him... if he hadn't been so exasperated with him.

Ariadne departed, and that left Arthur and Eames alone in the room. It was still too early to suggest lunch, and it would have been awkward to invite Eames to have a late breakfast with him -- especially when Eames was well aware that Arthur almost never ate breakfast -- but he didn't want to let the man walk away. Even though he couldn't set his own plans into motion until they'd parted ways.

"I've never seen any of your art," he said to Eames, coming back over to the sofa and sitting on it, before Eames could rise from his chair.

"Art?" Eames brows rose, but Arthur wasn't buying it. And not only because of the painting he had seen Eames working on in the dream-share.

"No one who isn't an artist just whips off a sketch like you did," he said, giving Eames a frown that he only half meant. He wasn't going to let Eames get away with trying to mislead him or prevaricating. "Especially not with the confidence that it looks enough like the subject to be recognizable."

Eames pursed his lips, looking more thoughtful than caught out. Arthur wondered whether that was a good sign.

"Well," Eames finally said slowly. "I've never heard you play the guitar and sing, have I? We've hardly shared every aspect of our lives with one another, Arthur. Only our dreams."

Arthur could actually feel himself flush slightly. He hadn't had any idea that Eames knew about his musical inclinations. He wondered if he was ever going to stop underestimating the man.

"You've never seen any of my art because I've never shown it to you," Eames continued easily, his bright gaze fixed on Arthur, his expression a little confused, a little wondering, but largely calm. "I didn't know you were interested."

"And if I was?" Arthur challenged, raising one brow.

"Would you play guitar for me?" Eames countered, sitting back with a smug expression, as though he thought he had called some kind of bluff.

Arthur gave it a moment of serious thought, but he already knew the answer. "I would if you asked."

From the widening of his eyes, it was clear that Eames had _not_ been expecting that answer. Arthur waited. He'd been open and honest; now the ball was in Eames' court, so to speak.

"I don't have any of my works with me, here in France," Eames finally said, almost stuttered.

Arthur shrugged. He felt comfortable in this conversation, perhaps because he now had Eames a little off balance. It wasn't that he was _happy_ about that. He wasn't a dick. But so often during the Fischer job it had seemed to go the other way. A little reversal wasn't unwelcome. "And I don't have my guitar," he replied. "If you're in the mood for issuing rainchecks today...."

Eames looked discomfitted and yet intrigued. Arthur found this more amusing than not, but he knew better than to grin too broadly.

"It's." Eames licked his lips, and Arthur was very careful not to focus on that, because he didn't want to chase Eames off. "It's something to think about...." He frowned at Arthur, and to be honest Arthur was more fixated on the expression than the man's sinful lips. He wondered what was going on in Eames' mind right now.

"How long are you going to be in your villa?" he asked, more to make conversation than because he wanted to know. Having a rough timeline couldn't hurt, of course. He'd have a better awareness of how fast he was going to have to work, or whether he could take his time.

"Not sure," Eames replied unhelpfully, his gaze distant, his voice low. He didn't look as though he was inclined to move, but Arthur knew how fast he would be able to leave if he made up his mind to do so.

"I hope you enjoy the stay," Arthur told him, and he meant it, but he didn't find it likely. "That area is beautiful."

"Do _you_ have any jobs lined up?" Eames wanted to know, his grey eyes steady on Arthur's face. It was unclear whether he was trying to change the subject, whether he was actually curious, or whether he was simply moving the conversation along its natural path.

Arthur shook his head. Even if he hadn't been going to deal with the mess that Eames had gotten himself into, he wouldn't have had anything planned. He was still on break, despite the need to keep his hand in, keep his name out there. That last was important but not vital.

There were rumors, of course, running rampant in the dream-share underworld, about why he and the others had been paid so handsomely by Saito. None came close to the truth, but everyone knew that they had done _something_ for which Saito had showered money upon them, for which he had gotten Cobol off of Arthur and Cobb's backs. Something which had made it possible for Cobb to retire and which meant they must have done something remarkable.

"I'm taking it easy," he replied honestly. "I don't intend to take too much time off, but it's nice to relax a bit, after being on the run for so long."

Eames was looking at him as though he had said something bizarre and unexpected. "I never would have thought I'd hear something like that from you," he said slowly, blinking.

Arthur frowned. "I'm a man, Eames. Not a machine or... or an _appliance_. I need time away from work as much as the next person."

Eames stared at him a moment longer, then he suddenly smiled. "You're hardly the same as the next person, Arthur," he said, and his voice was warm. "You're a great deal _more_ than the next person, or most anyone that I know. Although I have to admit that it's nice to see that you _can_ take it easy from time to time."

Arthur felt himself color slightly at this unexpected compliment. He gave a brief moment's consideration to brashly inviting himself along with Eames, to the man's rented villa. It wouldn't compare to some of the familiarities Eames had attempted in the past, after all. And it might just shake Eames out of the strange internal spiral he was locked in.

On the other hand, it might put Eames on his guard, which would make things harder on Arthur. He almost wanted to take the chance... but he didn't quite dare to. He couldn't risk screwing up, because he instinctively knew that he was only going to get one chance. He didn't dare to get this wrong.

"I suppose I should get going," Eames said, glancing down at his hands. He looked unaccountably tired, and yet at the same time he seemed to be largely at ease. "If you have dinner with Ariadne tonight...."

He trailed off, didn't finish the sentence, and Arthur raised his brows, waiting.

Eames lifted his eyes, caught Arthur's gaze, and gave him a small smile. "Then have a good time," he concluded. And Arthur was left with the strong feeling that this hadn't been what Eames had been initially intending to say at all.

He couldn't call him on it, though. And he couldn't hug Eames goodbye the way Ariadne had, as they both rose and drifted toward the door.

"Do you need any help clearing this place out?" Eames paused to ask, which was a little silly, considering that his hand was already on the knob, but Arthur appreciated that he had bothered to offer.

He shook his head. "Everything's good to go," he said. He'd disposed of the papers before Eames had even arrived, all three of them had collected their miscellaneous items, so all that was left were the mugs and the tea makings in the kitchenette and those could be left for the cleaning personnel to deal with. "If I do take a job that needs a forger, can I call on you?" he asked. He intended to have things resolved before then, but it seemed important to put this out there, and to get Eames' answer.

"Of course," Eames replied promptly, giving him a funny look. "Don't think that it's only Ariadne that can request my presence. I _do_ like to work with the best, you know."

"That goes both ways," Arthur said, and even though it seemed more than a little awkward, he thrust his hand out, toward Eames. "It was really good working with you again, Eames. I mean that."

It was different this time than it had been after the Fischer job. Then they'd had to disperse without letting on that they had known one another. Now, they were saying a real goodbye. And even though Arthur and Eames hadn't shaken hands since the first time they had met, it seemed to be the thing to do. In lieu of hugging Eames the way Ariadne had done. Arthur didn't think there was any chance he'd get away with _that_.

Though, honestly, he couldn't help thinking of the way that Eames had wrapped his arms around the waist of his projection of Arthur, and vice versa. It hadn't seemed fair. But if what Arthur suspected was true, and Eames had been dipping into the time-share for days of dream time on a regular basis for a month and a half now... then that meant that he'd been spending far more time with this projection than the _real_ Arthur.

And that was something that Arthur intended to do something about. Just not right this instant.

Eames hesitated, but before it could become rude, he reached forward and clasped Arthur's hand in his own. His fingers were strong and lean, his palm warm, with dry, soft skin. Arthur could feel Eames' crooked pinky finger, pressing against his own palm; it was likely to be the reason Eames used his left hand for doing many things people only used their dominant hand for, even though he was right-handed. Arthur might have been able to snoop into Eames' past and find out how he had damaged it, but more than that, he wanted to just _ask_ Eames and have the man tell him the tale.

"It has been good," Eames replied quietly, and Arthur didn't like the melancholy tone of his voice.

"Take care of yourself," he said, perhaps a little more sharply and with a little more force than he should have done, but Eames was standing there, looking worn down and hollow-eyed, having clearly lost weight since their last job together. It was all too obvious that he _hadn't_ been taking care of himself.

"You too," Eames said smoothly, as though he had a leg to stand on, and then he was gone.

Arthur frowned, pulling out his phone and preparing to leave this suite for his own hotel room. He was already packed but he needed to make travel plans. He _would_ be meeting Ariadne for dinner, he thought, but both before and after that it was all about Eames and what Arthur intended to do in regards to the other man.

He was aware of the problem now, and he wasn't going to let any more time pass without doing something about it.

***

Dinner with Ariadne went well, was pleasant enough, but didn't give either of them any further insights into what was wrong with Eames. Arthur guarded what he knew, fiercely and with no small amount of guilt. After all, he wasn't meant to know. And to tell Ariadne would be to expose Eames without the man's knowledge or permission. Arthur didn't have that right.

Arthur couldn't help wondering. He wondered why Eames was more willing to spend time in the dream-share world with a fake Arthur than here in Paris, feeding ducks in the park with the real Ariadne. He wondered what would have happened if _he_ had invited Eames on a similar outing.

He almost wished he had done. But he could be pretty certain that it would have been poorly received, and he was completely sure that Eames would have turned him down.

"You're going after him, right?"

Arthur nodded. There was no harm in letting Ariadne know this, since she had already guessed as much, and it would set her mind at ease.

"Take care of him, Arthur," she said, gazing at him earnestly across their table. They were dining together and yet all their focus was on Eames, who was even now on his way to the coast. It might have been amusing if it hadn't been sort of sad. But it did cause Arthur to feel more certain about the choices he had made.

"I will," he replied. And he intended to do so.

***

Before he left Paris the next morning, Arthur did one last thing. He called Dominic Cobb.

He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he needed an outside opinion. Someone who knew him, and who knew Eames. Someone who knew Arthur better than most anyone else did. Someone that he could _trust_. Granted, Cobb hadn't proven to be completely trustworthy during the Fischer job, but at that point he'd been obsessed, desperate, and to be fair, he hadn't known that Robert's subconscious was militarized.

Anyway, it was more on an _emotional_ level that Arthur trusted Cobb. Even more so, now that Cobb had what he wanted, wasn't still trying to grasp for something out of his reach. Now he might actually be able to focus on someone other than himself. At least that was what Arthur was hoping.

"Hey, Arthur." Cobb sounded relaxed, undoubtedly glad to be back with his kids. "How's it going?"

"Fine," Arthur answered shortly, skipping quickly through this net of expected social etiquette because he had a more important goal in mind. "Listen, Cobb, I need to ask you something."

"Go ahead." It was difficult to tell from just two words, but Arthur thought that Cobb sounded more amused than curious, as though he was pretty sure that he already knew what Arthur was going to ask. Arthur wondered if Cobb had a clue. Well, he was about to find out, wasn't he.

"What do you think about me and Eames?"

"Do you mean together?"

Cobb didn't sound incredibly shocked, and he _had_ jumped right there. So maybe this wasn't coming from as far out of left field as Arthur had thought.

"So the thought is not entirely new to you."

Cobb actually laughed, the bastard. "Haven't you guys been dancing around that issue for at least three years now?"

Arthur lifted his brows even though Cobb couldn't see him. "Is _that_ what you think we've been doing?" he asked incredulously. "That's not how I remember it."

"Really?" Cobb laughed again, but he didn't sound nearly as amused this time. "You must be about the only one who missed it, Arthur."

"Really." Arthur was unamused. "Are you saying what I think you're saying, Cobb?"

"Maybe," Cobb replied slowly. "Okay, so, do you really think that Eames _hasn't_ been flirting all this time?"

Arthur gave it some serious consideration. After all, this was why he had called Cobb. He needed an outside perspective. And Cobb had known both of them for a lot longer than Ariadne had. "Maybe he used to," he replied slowly, allowing himself to see it in that light. He kind of figured he'd always known, but had used their sniping and banter to keep Eames at a distance. However.... "But not during the Fischer job. His barbs were real then, for the most part. He seemed--"

He stopped there, because he didn't know how to finish that sentence. Disappointed? Bitter? Dismissive? Well, if he'd been flirting all that time, being constantly put off by Arthur, then Arthur couldn't really blame him. He must have felt as though it was Arthur who had been being dismissive, when he really had been... kind of clueless. As much as Arthur hated to admit to this fact.

"Maybe he was just tired," Cobb said. "I thought he was still pretty friendly, aside from a few cracks."

"You know," Arthur said thoughtfully, "Back when we first met, he asked me out a few times. I turned him down, because I didn't take him seriously and because it was the intelligent thing to do at the time. But I think he's been holding it against me ever since."

"More than likely," Cobb said candidly. "And you're right; it was definitely the smart thing to do at the time. But that time isn't now."

"No. Not anymore."

Cobb was silent and Arthur wondered what he was thinking. Then he decided to ask, because that was _why_ he had called, after all, wasn't it?

"What are you thinking?"

Cobb was silent a moment longer, but then he replied. "What are you asking me, Arthur? I mean, when you called, you had something specific in mind, right? When you said you and Eames, you meant you and Eames _together_. Didn't you?"

"I.... Yes." Arthur had to reply honestly, because it was the truth. It might have taken seeing Eames being all domestic with his projection of Arthur in the dream-share, but he was finally willing to admit that there was something there. Something between the two of them, Eames and the _real_ Arthur. Not that sad shadow of him that Eames' subconscious had conjured up.

"Do you think it's too late?" he asked Cobb, because whether Cobb could answer it or not, that was a question that had been at the forefront of his mind. Ever since he'd figured out what _he_ wanted.

"I couldn't say." Cobb wasn't really much help. "I'm not Eames so I don't know exactly what he's thinking. But emotions like love... you can't just turn them on and off. He might have given up by now, but that doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't still feel it."

Arthur could feel his face heat up as Cobb used the word "love". He hesitated to think of this thing between himself and Eames on that term. They didn't know each other well enough for that... did they?

"Are you sure of what you want?" Cobb asked him, and now he sounded concerned, where he'd been more matter-of-fact and calm during the rest of this conversation. "I'd hate to see you break him, Arthur. Or break your own heart."

"Are you so sure he wants anything from me other than sex?" Arthur returned tartly, even though he knew that was bullshit, even though he could see in his mind's-eye Eames wrapping his arms around his projection of Arthur, resting his head on his shoulder, just _staying_. Arthur couldn't judge the man's subconscious, it was true, but he was pretty sure that for all the time he'd been spending in the dream-share, if all Eames had wanted was to tumble Arthur, he could have done it with his projection by now. Or tried harder to seduce Arthur in the waking world.

If he hadn't wanted anything more than sex, he would have made a move by now, one way or another, waking or dreaming.

Cobb snorted, sounding about as convinced as Arthur, even without the proof Arthur had seen. "Please. Arthur, you're attractive and Eames obviously knows that, but after four years? If all he wanted was sex, he'd either have made a move or given up by now. This is obviously about far more than that."

Now Arthur's cheeks were burning, and he wasn't sure whether to feel complimented or angry at Cobb's blunt words. It was strange; he'd once had an entire dialogue with Cobb about the best ways to perform cunnilingus, using Cobb's experiences with Mal as an example, but right now, speaking about the possibility of Eames being in love with him made him as uncomfortable as discussing sex with a parent or grandparent would have done.

"I meant it when I said I thought you guys were good for each other, Arthur," Cobb continued, when it became clear that Arthur wasn't going to be able to comment on his last statement. "I'm hardly the one you should be asking. This is something you should be talking to _Eames_ about. But for what it's worth, if you've finally decided to stop dancing around one another and do something about it, I'm all for it."

"He's kind of an asshole," Arthur said, and it wasn't a protest, just a statement of fact.

"Yeah?" Cobb chuckled. "So are you, Arthur. No offense. I can be too. We're none of us perfect. It's finding the ways we can compliment each other's good points and shore up one another's weaknesses that make a good relationship." He heaved a gusty sigh. "And thank you so much for making me sound like a damned fortune cookie or self help book!"

"Hey, you did that on your own," Arthur protested, but he was grinning. His face was still a little hot and his heart was beating a little too quickly, but he didn't think that he could argue with anything Cobb had said, and the man had articulated some things that Arthur had been feeling but hadn't quite dared to put into words.

"Thank you, Cobb," he said softly, and now he really was ready to go and take care of things with Eames. Because now he knew what he wanted, and it was simply a matter of finding out from Eames what _he_ wanted, then going from there.

It was terrifying, the lack of control, but Arthur felt as though he was ready for it. And even though it might be incredibly stupid of him... he _trusted_ Eames. Seeing how tenderly Eames treated even the projection of Arthur, he thought that he could feel certain that Eames wouldn't say or do anything to hurt him. Not deliberately, anyway.

"Good luck, Arthur," Cobb told him, and he sounded pleased and affectionate. "I hope this works out for you. You know that I want you to be happy, right?"

Arthur cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. It was nice to have his _friend_ back. He'd been stuck for so long with broken Cobb that he'd nearly forgotten what a great guy he had been before Mal's death had gutted him. "I know," he husked. "Thank you."

"And let me know what happens, okay? I don't want to be left hanging here, wondering."

Arthur smiled softly, his mind already racing ahead to the coast, to a certain small villa. He'd gotten the address and had his travel plans worked out. Now it was time to go. To head after Eames. "I will," he promised, but all of his focus was forward. On his plans. On _Eames_.

As it should be.

***

Arthur was pretty sure he'd already come to terms with his own feelings on the matter before he left Paris, but the trip down to the coast gave him more time to think, to consider what he was doing and why.

It wasn't as though he hadn't noticed the... spark, for lack of a better word, that had existed between Eames and himself. It had been there even from the beginning. Eames had always been able to get under Arthur's skin.

Arthur was a pretty easy-going guy, generally speaking. Anyone who had worked with him might argue, because when it came to a job, he was all about the details, specificity, and getting things right on the first try. But that was only one side of it.

After all, not everyone could have taken being kneecapped by a projection of his friend's dead wife during a vitally important job without a word of reproof. Especially considering Cobb's off-hand apology.

There had been a reason that Yusuf had tested his compounds on Arthur. It wasn't as though he'd _liked_ being slapped, being knocked over time and again, but no one else had been willing to do it. He hadn't even gotten angry when he'd caught Eames laughing at him, and he'd have had the right.

And there had been a reason he'd trained Ariadne in the dream-share. It wasn't just because Cobb didn't dare to risk the wrath of his projection of Mal; it was also because Arthur was calm, patient, and steady. Ariadne would have done well no matter what, but Arthur liked the think he'd done better by her than another teacher might have. She'd told him once that he'd yelled at her a lot less than Cobb had done.

It was true that Arthur demanded a high level of performance from those he worked with, but the fact was that he demanded even more from himself. And when it came to reality and to personal reactions, he was more likely than not to keep his cool.

That as why it was all the more noticeable that Eames had always, _always_ been able to provoke him, to get him to react. Playground romance was alive and well in any job the two of them worked together, Arthur thought with a small smirk. He just hadn't recognized it for what it was, for the longest time. Or, rather, he hadn't allowed himself to recognize it.

Well, no more self delusions. Somehow Eames had taken a wrong turn somewhere. And while Arthur didn't feel that he was responsible, while he was under no obligation to do so, he was going to try to fix it.

The only question left, was whether Eames would _allow_ him to help.

***

When he reached the villa Eames had rented, Arthur was surprised to find that Eames was actually awake. He'd honestly been expecting the man to already be hooked up to the PASIV device. Not that this would have been a good thing, but it would have played into his plans better....

From what he could see, Eames was nothing more nor less than a man on vacation. He sat on the patio with his tea, he read the local paper, he relaxed on the sofa, and nowhere was there a chunky silver case in evidence.

This made it harder on Arthur. He was good at surveillance. He was _better_ than good at surveillance. But Eames was as good as he was, and that made it far more difficult to watch Eames without risking being caught, when Eames was awake.

Arthur would never have thought that he would _want_ to see Eames hook himself up and go under for twelve hours.... But his plans kind of depended on it.

Just when he was about to grow desperate, when he was beginning to consider ever more outlandish options, Eames took a phone call.

It looked at Arthur as though Eames had been ignoring his cell phone, but when it rang on the afternoon of the second day, Eames looked at the screen, got a soft look on his face, and answered it. Arthur was too far to hear, and he wasn't as adept at lip reading as he'd have liked, but he thought it was pretty clear that the call was from Ariadne. That would certain explain why Eames was willing to answer it.

He really hoped she wouldn't say anything about his own presence here, mention the fact that he had followed Eames. He hadn't given her any details of his plan, for obvious reasons, and she might think that the two of them had already talked. So Arthur was in a bit of a sweat, as he watched Eames speak on the phone, sitting on the patio.

Eames laughed. He smiled a lot more than Arthur was expecting. He sighed and dragged a hand over his face and almost looked as though he was going to cry. He talked to Ariadne for over an hour before hanging up, then he sat for another fifty minutes, staring at the view from his patio, obviously not even seeing the beautiful beach, his attention turned inward.

All this Arthur watched with his binoculars. It didn't seem as though Ariadne had given the game away, and Arthur was even more impressed by the girl and her quick mind. As well as her care for those she considered friends.

Whatever they had talked about, this call from Ariadne had evidently been the trigger that Eames had needed, to send him hauling the PASIV device out of the closet. Arthur felt bad. A phone conversation with a friend who cared shouldn't send anyone jittering into the dream-share, into a false world, but that was exactly what Eames was doing.

On the other hand, this was exactly what Arthur wanted and needed. And he was going to make the most of this opportunity.

Getting into the villa right after Eames had gone under was disturbingly easy. As far as Arthur knew, no one was out for Eames' blood right now, but if they had been, he'd have been a sitting target here.

Once inside, Arthur made sure that the place was as secure as he could make it. He removed his jacket and his shoes. And this time, unlike in Paris, he lay down on the bed beside Eames. Because this time he was going under for twelve hours as well.

Succeed or fail, Arthur was going to make a difference in the dream this time.

And he didn't intend to fail.

***

The hiss of the PASIV device melted into the rhythmic shush of waves moving over sand.

Arthur had been right; the beach was beautiful in the daylight. Arthur thought of the real beach right outside the villa, and the fact that Eames hadn't yet set foot on the sand there. And even though he had _wanted_ Eames to go under, to enter the dream-share so that Arthur could follow, he thought that it was sad to leave behind reality for fantasy.

There was nothing like the dream.... But that didn't mean Arthur wanted to live in it always. Reality held its own charms as well. And without a life lived in reality, the dream might begin to lose some of its wonder.

Arthur took a cautious look around, but the beach was as deserted as it had been when he had been here last. Good.

He had taken care, when entering the dream, to deliberately shape his appearance. It wasn't really difficult; it was a bit like forging, only less complex. Reaching up, he made sure that his hair was loose, that extra bit longer, and free of product. He was wearing a light cotton button-up and grey slacks, but he was ready to shift those as needed.

That was, if everything went to plan. Arthur fully intended that everything go to plan, but he was also well aware that the subconscious was a tricky thing and sometimes projections had a mind of their own, so to speak. Just look at Mal and what had happened inside Fischer's head.

Arthur didn't feel as though Eames' projections -- the few that there were -- were going to rise up against him. At least not right away. And the projection of Ariadne had seemed downright friendly toward him, whether she'd mistaken him for another projection or not. Well, she _had_ , but that was beside the point.

Arthur really wanted to go and talk to her again, try some good old fashioned extraction techniques, but he was too leery of disrupting the balance in this world. He couldn't afford to call attention to himself.

Instead, he made his way back to the camera shop that he'd visited before, and made more purchases. He was glad that Eames' subconscious didn't have any trouble taking his money, and that the projection running the shop didn't recognize him.

Especially considering what he was buying. The last thing he needed was Eames' subconscious getting suspicious.

Once his purchase was made, he went and staked out the apartment. This part was so familiar it was a little disturbing. The hair tickling his nape and forehead were different, though. He found himself falling seamlessly back into the habit of brushing it out of the way with the back of his hand, and he remembered why he'd taken to slicking it back, almost before he'd left his teens behind.

Now wasn't the time, though. He was looking for an opening. And he got one almost immediately. He had no idea where Eames and his pet projection were headed, but he made sure to note what his lookalike was wearing so that he could duplicate it exactly. It wasn't really that different than what he was already wearing.

Arthur was a patient man who knew how to stick to a timeline, but it was inordinately hard to stay put for five minutes. Getting into the apartment was even more easy this time, because there was no security guard. Arthur wondered about that, but it didn't strike him as suspicious, just fortuitous.

It took him under half an hour to get the entire apartment wired for sound. Then it took him two days and nights of listening in before he felt he was ready to make his move.

Basically, he didn't discover anything unexpected. Eames and the faux Arthur got along about as well as he could have expected; a little snark, a little sniping, but mostly friendly. They interacted largely as Arthur thought he and Eames might if they would only allow themselves to let down their guards and be sociable. They did sleep in separate rooms, and all they did in there was sleep. They cooked, they cleaned -- both of them, which Arthur shouldn't have found as surprising as he did -- and they went out shopping. It was... well, Arthur would have said idyllic, if it hadn't been so _boring_.

But evidently, boring was what Eames wanted and needed right now. Arthur supposed that he could sympathize. Only, this had been going on for far too long. It was time for Arthur to break him free from his self inflicted reverie.

Well, almost time.

It was the morning of the third day that finally afforded Arthur his chance to make his move. He was profoundly grateful; while this might be a pleasurable retreat for Eames, the enforced inactivity was driving Arthur mad. He couldn't even indulge in any social interaction, seeing as it was the _projection_ of him in the apartment, and he didn't dare to seek out conversation with any of the other projections in Eames' dream world.

"I'm going out for pastries," was what the projection of Arthur said, leaning in the door to Eames' bedroom while the other man lazed in bed.

"Don't forget the croissants," Eames mumbled, and Arthur suspected that he would stumble out in fifteen minutes or so, his hair wild, eyes bleary. But he wasn't going to be here to see it. Because he was going to be following the projection of himself.

True to his announcement, the projection of Arthur walked briskly to a local bakery in the crisp morning air. He was wearing a long jacket over a neat shirt and slacks, and Arthur made sure to adjust his own clothing to match, as he skillfully trailed him. It was harder when there were no pedestrians on the sidewalks, no cars moving in the streets, but Arthur was good. Evidently he was better than the projection of himself.

Once the purchase at the bakery had been made and bagged, and the projection headed back toward the apartment, Arthur fell into step more closely behind him. This might have been a risky move, only it actually worked in his favor, when the projection tried to ambush him just a block from the apartment.

But Arthur was the one with a gun.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, and he actually meant it, then he pulled the trigger and shot the projection of himself in the center of the forehead before he could do anything more than register surprise.

The alleyway they were in was empty and deserted -- even in this empty cityscape -- which was undoubtedly why this projection had chosen it. Again, this worked in Arthur's favor.

He concentrated until a full-size freezer appeared, pressed up against one brick wall. It was harder changing things in someone else's dream, and dangerous. The more he changed things, after all, the more likely it was that Eames' subconscious would notice. But then, there was no one here, they were both locked in for four more dream days, and Arthur had a body to take care of.

It was weird, manhandling his own dead body into the freezer. Arthur felt a little bad. This projection had a history with Eames, had smiled and laughed and lived with him.

But, he reminded himself, the projection was not a real person. He-- _It_ had just been a piece of Eames' subconscious, was simply a collection of Eames' memories and observations of the real Arthur. _The projection was not real._ Arthur was real.

So, yes, he did feel a little guilty as he closed the freezer lid and clicked the lock he'd dreamed onto it closed. But with the full knowledge that he didn't _have_ to feel guilty.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, and allowed himself to forget about the gun, now that it was no longer needed. He picked up the bag of croissants, and set off for the apartment.

This was either that best idea he had ever had or the most stupid. But either way, he was now fully committed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Fischer job, some of the former team come together once again, but there is something off about Eames. Can Arthur and Ariadne find out what's going on and can Arthur figure out how to fix it?

It was a little strange entering the apartment for a third time not as an intruder but as an inhabitant.

Well, sort of. Arthur was technically still an intruder into the dream. He definitely wasn't the projection of himself that had been living here. But neither was he breaking in to explore, or to wire the place for sound. He was here, at least for the moment, to live. To take over for the projection of himself that he had so efficiently removed from the picture.

This time the security guard from before was in his spot at the desk, looking a little sleepy but friendly. He nodded to Arthur and smiled, and Arthur nodded and smiled back. Then he took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding with something he resolutely told himself was excitement and anticipation, not fear.

He wondered how long he would have before Eames' subconscious began to get suspicious. So far he hadn't had any bad encounters, but so far he had hardly _had_ any encounters. He still wondered about the quietness and emptiness of Eames' created city.

Unlocking the front door with the keys he'd lifted from the projection of himself -- three silvery keys, attached to a keychain shaped like a red die, which made Arthur feel a little strange even though he knew damned well how observant Eames could be -- he stepped into the apartment. He stood a moment, pausing to take both a deep breath and a good look around. He wasn't rushed now, had no ulterior motives, and he wanted to give himself a chance to take it all in.

It was just as cozy as he remembered. Maybe even more so, since he wasn't overwhelmed with surprise and was familiar with its dimensions from the surveillance he'd been maintaining from across the street. The balcony door was open, thin morning sunlight slicing across the floor. The orange tabby was curled in a stripy orange loaf on one of the expensive rugs, giving Arthur a slit-eyed stare. The morning air was a little chilly, Arthur thought, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on a hook near the door, but it was bracing. And he could smell coffee. Delicious, freshly brewed coffee.

"Did you get the croissants?" Eames asked from the kitchen area. His hair was as wild as Arthur had anticipated, there were bags under his eyes, and he was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and jeans. Arthur didn't think he had ever seen Eames look more appealing.

Well, maybe that had something to do with the fact that he was finally letting himself contemplate _having_ Eames. For the first time he was seeing Eames as a man that Arthur could _be with_.

"Of course," he replied crisply, striding into the apartment and moving to join Eames in the kitchen. Now that he was here all his tension melted away. Sure, he was mimicking the projection of himself that Eames had created. Yes, he was taking an awful chance in doing so. But this place, _Eames_ , the dream that they were sharing... it all felt like home. And it might have been insane, but Arthur felt comfortable here.

"You look particularly pleased with yourself this morning," Eames murmured, his expression fond, as he accepted the bakery bag with one hand, and very lightly brushed the fingertips of the other hand over Arthur's cheekbone. In the waking world, Eames was very careful about physical boundaries, always took pains not to touch others unless he was lifting a mark's wallet or something. But here in the dream, with the projection of Arthur, he had proved himself to be a much more tactile person. Arthur wondered if that was what Eames had been like before he'd trained himself out of it.

Well, the answer to that was pretty obvious. Everyone was more _themselves_ while they were dreaming. It was a proven fact. Even when one was lucid and aware of building the dream, bits and pieces of one's subconscious, one's true self, still shone through.

"I'll be even more pleased once I get some of that coffee," Arthur replied easily, smiling at Eames and allowing a portion of the real affection he was feeling to seep into his voice, to warm his expression. That all felt so simple, so natural. He'd been a little afraid that it would come off as forced or awkward, impersonating his projection, but it wasn't.

Honestly, right now what Arthur wanted most was to grab Eames and kiss him, wanted to feel the man warm and solid in his arms. But that would be _far_ too much too soon, and would tip his hand long before he was ready. Nothing that he had seen in all the time he had spent watching Eames and his projection of Arthur had indicated that they had advanced that far in their... was it even a relationship? Well, one way or another Arthur supposed that it had been.

 _Arthur_ was here now, though. No more projection. And Arthur wasn't going to blow this.

Eames laughed lightly, clearly completely unaware of the switch that Arthur had made within his dream, and busied himself with making some eggs and ham to go with the croissants. Arthur poured rich coffee into a mug he recognized as one he had favored on a job about two years ago. The real mug was long gone, lost some time between then and now, but here it was in Eames' dream.

"Thank you," he said, after taking his first blissful sip of the dark brew. It was perfect, the roast and the blend that he preferred, with ideal water to grounds ratio. He wasn't surprised that Eames remembered, but he was a little surprised that he had bothered, for a projection of Arthur in his dream, when he wasn't drinking any of the coffee himself. Surprised and grateful, he might add.

Well, it wasn't so hard to make perfect coffee in a dream, Arthur supposed. But he was still happy that Eames had made the effort.

"For what?" Eames asked vaguely, as he poked at the eggs with a rubber spatula. Arthur experienced the completely irrational urge to reach up and pat the cowlick at the crown of Eames' head; it was no wonder the man kept his hair so firmly shellacked in the waking world. The two of them had that in common, that was for sure.

"For the coffee," Arthur replied, holding the mug with both hands to warm his fingers and to keep himself from reaching for Eames. "For making it for me."

Eames shot a surprised glance over one shoulder. "It's nothing," he replied, somehow making it sound as though this was the truth. "I know how you like it, that's all."

"And yet you drink tea," Arthur replied, smiling into his mug. It was easier interacting with Eames like this, when Eames didn't know that he was the real Arthur, when he was comfortable and easy with Arthur, when neither of them had to be on their guard.

Arthur liked this. He liked it a lot. He thought that he could get used to living like this.

"Forgive me for being a responsible British subject," Eames said haughtily, taking down a couple of plates and doling out their breakfast evenly. It looked amazing, and even though this was a dream, Arthur couldn't wait to tuck in. As a crowning point of each plate, Eames placed a fresh and flaky croissant.

"You haven't lived in England for well over fifteen years," Arthur protested with some amusement, taking the plate Eames proffered and seating himself on the chair in the dining nook that he knew from watching was his projection's.

"But it's where I was born and where I was raised," Eames came back with, joining Arthur with a mug of the aforementioned tea. It did look good, Arthur thought, but nothing could come close to his coffee.

The entire breakfast was incredibly delicious, and Arthur couldn't have thought of a better way to start out his cohabitation with Eames. For however long it was going to last; he was hoping for the entire four days. Of course, he had no idea how he was going to pull that off, or what might happen afterward. He was going to be working with things as they went along, making it up as he went, and this thought was as much liberating as it was terrifying.

For today, at least, Arthur was going to live in the moment.

The day was sunny and yet the air remained cool. The cat wandered over to the table, twining around their ankles, leaving ginger hairs on Arthur's slacks. Arthur fought the urge to reach down and scratch around its ears, because he knew that this was not the sort of behavior the projection he was disguised as would have indulged in. Eames, with no such restrictions, did just that, and the soft buzz of the cat's purring filled the dining nook.

"You're not lifting him onto the table," Arthur said, because that, at least, was something that he could agree with his projection on. "Or putting your plate down there."

"I wouldn't." Eames sounded wounded, but he was grinning at Arthur as he protested. "Anyway, Archibald is a well mannered gentleman who doesn't eat leftover omelet."

"Or ham?" Arthur asked, raising a brow. He really wanted to mock Eames for the name he'd given the stray, but he figured that the projection whose place he'd taken must surely have already done so in the past. He couldn't imagine that the subject would have gone unremarked upon.

"Do you see any ham remaining on our plates?"

It was true that there was no meat left. Only a few flakes of buttery pastry and a loose mushroom slice or two.

"All right, you have a point," Arthur allowed, and he didn't try to hide his grin as he stood and collected the plates in question.

"Just leave them in the sink, love," Eames directed, picking up Archibald and petting his head roughly. "We'll get them later, when there's enough to be worth the bother."

Arthur wasn't about to argue. Instead he poured himself more coffee and he and Eames both gravitated to the living area. Arthur was curious as to what his projection had been typing so diligently on his laptop all the time. And Eames seemed contented to lounge on the loveseat with the cat, even though he had only recently risen from bed.

Arthur opened the laptop, hoping it wasn't going to be password protected, wondering whether it was going to be blank, whether Eames' dreaming mind had bothered to fill in what his projection of Arthur had been writing on it.

He resolutely ignored the heat he had been feeling at the back of his neck ever since Eames had so casually dropped that endearment. He already knew from his surveillance that Eames tended to call his projection of Arthur by pet names, and it wasn't as though Eames knew that he was the _real_ Arthur right now.

It was true that Eames had called Ariadne "love" as well, several times during their last job, and he seemed to mean it affectionately. With Arthur, he was more restrained, which only made sense, seeing as it was unlikely Arthur would have reacted well. Eames didn't seem to have any such reservations where his projection of Arthur was concerned, though.

Arthur didn't think that he minded. He wasn't quite so certain what he might think about it in the waking world; that could be different. Then again, Eames might not be so willing to use the affectionate nickname in the waking world, even if they _had_ been on such familiar terms.

Arthur was fairly certain that the "darling" Eames had thrown at him in the warehouse on the Fischer job had _not_ been affectionately meant. It had, rather, been a bit of a "fuck you" after Cobb and Arthur had been snapping at Eames, expecting him to get his job done in a portion of the time they had promised him, a job that the entire possibility of inception had been riding on. It had pretty much been Eames' little way of underlining the fact that he had, in that moment, been doing Arthur's job as well as his own when he had taken out the projection that had had them hemmed in with one well aimed grenade. They'd all been on edge and under huge amounts of pressure, and Arthur actually _hadn't_ been offended. In fact, after the initial burst of indignation he'd just been glad that that damned sniper had been taken care of.

As well as being more than a little impressed, he had to admit. As much as Eames tended to annoy him, the man also had an undeniable habit of being amazing. Which had occasionally been part of _what_ had annoyed Arthur. Eames seemed to do everything so effortlessly, and considering how sloppy his methods were, that hardly seemed fair.

But then, Arthur didn't know anything that went through Eames' mind, how much work he put into making things _seem_ so easy. And he certainly couldn't complain that Eames stinted on his forging. Eames put just as much care and effort into that as Arthur put into all aspects of his own work. In that way, at least, they were very alike.

"So what would you like to do today?" Eames asked lazily, as Arthur waited for the laptop to boot up. He was absently petting Archibald with one hand, but his gaze was fixed on Arthur, his grey eyes sharp under heavy lids.

Arthur gave it a moment of serious thought. He had been taking it easy since the Fischer job, true, but this dream was something else entirely. Everything here was slow and quiet, there was no sense of urgency, and while Arthur liked this, he hardly knew what to do with himself.

"What about a trip to the beach?" he asked, staring at the laptop screen. He hated to be as fixated on the computer, as dismissive of Eames, as his projection had been but the laptop was on the verge of powering up and he was anxious to see what secrets it was going to hold, if any.

"No," Eames replied, in a low drawl, his tone light but with a certain tension laced through it. "I don't think so. If I wanted to do that, I'd have done it up above."

Arthur shot him a sharp glance. One thing he'd discovered early on, after wiring the apartment for sound, was that Eames was not shy about the fact that he was in a dream. This had surprised Arthur. It had set his mind at ease a bit, but not entirely. Just because Eames never lost awareness that he was dreaming, just because he wasn't pretending that the projection of Arthur was the real thing, that didn't change the fact that he had been spending _far_ too much time in the dream-share.

Arthur probably had something to say, but he was distracted by the laptop coming on. It wasn't password protected, after all, even though his personal laptop up in the waking world certainly was and Arthur knew that Eames had to be aware of that fact. But he put it down to the idea that neither Eames nor his projection of Arthur felt the need to hide anything from one another, here in the depths of Eames' dream.

At least that was what he liked to think the reason was.

The background image that flickered to life on the screen was a beautiful shot of the Seine at dawn. Arthur thought he recognized it as the view from a cafe where he, Eames, and Ariadne had met the morning of the first day on their latest job together.

As he might have expected, all the files were lined up in an organized, color-coded manner. Arthur wondered if he would get in good wireless, here in Eames' dream, and his mouth quirked in a small smile.

"Something amusing?" Eames asked, an indulgent look on his face.

"Not really," Arthur replied honestly, meeting Eames eyes and giving him a wider, warmer smile. He could do that; Eames thought he was the projection of himself. Eames' projection of Arthur might occasionally get snappish and sharp, but overall he _liked_ Eames.

And, besides, Arthur just felt like smiling at Eames. He was filled with affection in this moment, and had to express it somehow.

Eames seemed a little bemused, but Arthur knew that his projection had shown similar openness in the past so he didn't worry that he'd done something suspicious. He turned his attention back to the computer, and after a moment Eames returned to petting Archibald.

Most of the files, not surprisingly, didn't open when Arthur clicked on them. To be perfectly honest, he hadn't expected that they would, though he'd kind of been hoping.... Then he had the rather obvious idea of checking on the most recently opened file. If the projection had been using this laptop for _anything_ , that would show Arthur what it had been.

It worked, and a text document popped open. So all of that typing had been for something after all, Arthur thought with a wicked grin.

"I'm going to go and shower," Eames announced, distracting Arthur as he rose and set Archibald in his warm spot.

"Do you want me to join you?" Arthur asked, half without thinking, and half on purpose.

Eames turned a shocked expression his way, then blinked and laughed, a little tightly. "Very funny," he return, and with one last, long look and a highly arched brow, he headed off down the hall.

Arthur watched him go, but then he quickly found himself captivated by the text document he had opened. It was some sort of biography, detailing how he and Eames had met, and Arthur's brows rose involuntarily as he registered this fact. It was completely unexpected and completely _bizarre_ , to find himself reading the story of when he had met Eames and all their interaction since then, written from his own point of view. When, obviously, it had not been written by him but had been written instead by Eames' subconscious.

Bizarre, and yet fascinating.... and more than a little enlightening.

Before Arthur realized how much time had passed, Eames was out of the shower and making his pink-cheeked, fresh-scented way to the kitchen. Arthur checked the time and saw that, unbelievably, it was nearing noon.

"Sorry," he said, setting aside the laptop, even though doing so was something of an effort, and rising to follow Eames. As intriguing as the epic story he had found on the laptop had been, the man himself was much more so.

To be honest, Arthur hadn't realized that he and Eames had actually spent that much time together. Not until he had seen the proof with his own eyes. He couldn't refute any of the events in the "story" he'd been reading, even though he didn't remember them exactly as Eames' projection of him had written them. As well, he hadn't realized how much _weight_ they had carried.

Oh, it wasn't as though the projection had made them out to be more than they had been. After all, as Arthur had already noted, Eames and his projection of Arthur weren't "together" that way. Not beyond a clear emotional involvement and a certain physical comfort with one another that Eames and the real Arthur didn't have while awake.

But reading what was supposed to be _his_ side of the story, written by Eames' subconscious, Arthur found that there had actually been a lot between them that he himself, the real Arthur, had either ignored, sublimated, or just plain missed out on.

And that made him feel a little bad. Because he had recently realized that for all his flaws, Eames was someone worth knowing, someone worth getting to know better, and someone that Arthur personally wanted to become more familiar with. The fact that he should have realized this sooner, could have made the effort earlier....

Well, but perhaps he _could not_ have realized it sooner. Perhaps he _should not_ have made the effort earlier. Because everyone was constantly changing and growing, and neither he nor Eames was the same man that they had been when they had first met. They weren't even the same men they had been before the Fischer job. And certainly Arthur wasn't any longer of the same mindset that he had been before the job that Ariadne had called he and Eames in for, the one they had just completed.

"Were you wanting to go out?" he asked, stepping up close behind Eames and placing a hand on his shoulderblade. He could feel the warmth of Eames' flesh through the thin material of his shirt, the bone and muscle hard beneath his palm, he could smell the soap and shampoo, but underneath it the familiar scent of Eames' clean skin. He wondered exactly when and how he had become familiar with how Eames smelled.

Eames shrugged, turning and grinning at him. He seemed easy enough, seemed to mean the expression, but there was a darkness that never left the back of his eyes. It was something that had happened between the Fischer job and their most recent job, and Arthur hated that he was already used to it. Even knowing the cause didn't make it better.

"Not really," Eames replied, and Arthur even thought that he might mean it.

"Don't want to go to the park and feed the ducks?" he couldn't help asking with a little quirk to the corner of his lips.

Eames tensed underneath his palm and he shot Arthur a dirty look like he had never done while waking. "That's not funny," he snapped.

Arthur gave him what he hoped was a disarming grin. "Sorry," he apologized, and he actually did feel kind of bad. "What about hitting the coffee shop after lunch and seeing Ariadne?"

Eames nodded slowly, biting his lower lip. "That would be all right," he said, sounding a little hesitant. "Now that I'm through working with her up top. I've missed seeing her, and she's probably been missing us."

"Do you want me to make lunch?" Arthur offered, even though he was really itching to return to the story on the laptop.

"No, you go ahead and get back to work," Eames said softly. He placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder and leaned close to press a light kiss to one cheek, as though in apology for his sharp tone of voice a moment ago.

"It hardly seems fair," Arthur protested. "You made us breakfast, after all."

"After you ventured out into the chill morn to fetch our croissants," Eames came back, with a wide smile.

And this brought to mind thoughts of projections stuffed into freezers, which stole Arthur's words. So, even though he didn't regret what he had done, he simply nodded and headed back to the living area.

"I'll treat us to coffee then," he offered as Eames got into the fridge.

"Sure thing." Eames waved a vague hand without turning. "You usually do anyway."

Eames didn't ask for any input on what he should make them for lunch, and the veritable novel on the laptop sucked Arthur back in. It was even more bizarre reading their latest job, seeing what Eames thought Arthur had been thinking, when Arthur still remembered so clearly what he _had_ been thinking. In a lot of cases Eames had been pretty much dead on, proving that he understood Arthur frighteningly well. But other times, he didn't have a clue. Arthur found this comforting and exasperating in equal measures.

Then the story ended abruptly, after the job but before the debriefing meeting in the hotel suite. Arthur was kind of disappointed but he was also a little relieved.

It was telling that according to Eames' projection of Arthur, the hand Arthur had placed on Eames' thigh during their second dinner out with Ariadne hadn't really signified anything at all. Arthur was definitely exasperated by Eames' assessment of his motivations. At least that had only been what Eames had thought to be _Arthur's_ reaction to it, had not been Eames' reaction. If Eames himself hadn't been affected, then Arthur really would have been upset.

"You're so quiet over there," Eames said, as Arthur raised his head, closing the laptop. He'd gotten all he was going to get off of it. And whatever lunch was, it smelled delicious.

"Proofreading," he covered, rising to his feet and walking into the kitchen. He'd taken off his shoes when he'd come in after ambushing the projection of himself, and even though he still had his socks on, his feet were getting a little cold. He wondered how warm those dread yellow socks were... and just how much damage it would to do to his dignity if he put them on.

He had a feeling that before the day was done, he was going to find out.

"Well, lunch is ready," Eames said, giving him a strange look, but smiling cheerfully enough. The darkness was mostly gone from his eyes, and Arthur was glad.

***

Lunch was just as good as it had smelled. They didn't speak while they ate, but that didn't really seem to matter. The silence between them was companionable rather than awkward, and Arthur had a lot to think about.

Having recently revisited so many of their shared experiences from Eames' point of view -- vicariously if not actually -- Arthur felt as though he needed to take some time to digest what he had discovered.

It was hard for him to keep his gaze off of Eames, though. Eames' hair had dried almost as messy as his bed-head had been. He looked a little more rested and a lot more relaxed. It was strange to see him with his guard down, without the masks that he routinely wore around Arthur and everyone that he worked with. Hell, Arthur hadn't even been _aware_ of how much of himself Eames hid until he got to see him in a place where he felt completely safe.

It was good to see him like this, but it also hurt a little, because Arthur could not forget that Eames thought he was nothing more than a projection. He would not have exposed himself in this way to Arthur knowingly.

Well, Arthur was going to change that. That was the entire point of the plan he was implementing now.

"There's something...."

Arthur raised a brow when Eames hesitated.

"There's something different about you today," Eames finished, staring fixedly at Arthur over their empty plates.

Arthur felt a little twist of nerves, but he was sure that there was no way Eames could have figured it out. "How do you mean?" he asked, trying to be matter of fact about it without sounding _too_ innocent. Because that would only be _more_ suspicious.

Eames licked his lips and even as anxious as he was suddenly feeling, Arthur wanted to lick them as well. "You seem." Eames frowned slightly. "More contented than usual."

"Really?" Arthur actually found this to be surprising, because he thought that the projection he'd replaced had seemed contented most of the time, if not all of it. "Huh."

When no explanation was forthcoming -- Arthur didn't have one, either as himself or as the projection he was imitating -- Eames smiled slightly, then grabbed the plates.

"I don't know," Arthur said, because it was impolite not to reply. He stood and put a hand on Eames' shoulder, then slid an arm around his waist. "Maybe I'm just happy to be here."

Eames bit his lip again, turning toward Arthur but not leaning into his half embrace. "Well. I'm glad," he said, his voice low and sincere. Arthur didn't think he'd ever been more tempted to kiss anyone on the mouth. He almost thought that he could have gotten away with kissing Eames on the cheek... but then he hesitated too long and the moment was lost.

"Are _you_ happy?" Arthur wanted to know, not moving in but not moving away either. "To be here with me?"

Eames blinked rapidly, long sandy lashes fluttering, and Arthur couldn't even name all of the expressions that darted across his mobile features. "Sure," he replied, one hand coming to rest heavily on Arthur's waist as though in apology for how weak his voice sounded. "I'm.... Yeah."

"But?" Arthur prompted, arching a brow. He knew he was kind of being a dick, as well as risking tipping his hand way before he was ready. But he couldn't leave it alone. He just had to ask.

"Well." Eames shrugged, but he didn't remove his hand, which Arthur counted as a win. He was silent for another long moment, then he shook his head slightly, as though to clear it. "No, it's. I'm happy."

"And evidently unable to speak in full sentences," Arthur teased lightly, giving in to temptation and reaching up to touch the stark line of Eames' jaw. It wasn't a kiss, but it was all he would allow himself. "Wishing you were... mm... topside?" he ventured.

Arthur hadn't heard the projection of himself speak of the waking world, not in the two days that he'd had the apartment wired for sound, but Eames had done, so he didn't feel he was taking too large a chance.

"Not really." Eames responded to that question quickly and easily enough, not seeming surprised that Arthur had asked it.

"No?"

"No," Eames said decisively. "If I were awake right now..." His fingers twitched on Arthur's waist, "I'd be alone."

Arthur refrained from pointing out that this would have been _by choice_ , that Ariadne had _offered_ to do things with Eames, that Eames _could_ have invited either one of them to join him at the coast... but that didn't stop him from thinking them and from feeling a sharp sting of annoyance.

"Let's go and get that coffee," he said, to distract himself. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to pull away and step down out of the kitchen, instead of leaning in and... well.

He was only setting aside this urge until later, he told himself. Once they'd sorted some things out between them. It might have taken Arthur longer than Eames to recognize what there was between them, but once he'd reached that point, he was pretty sure he'd zipped way ahead. He had to wait for Eames to catch up; especially since the man thought that Arthur was nothing more than a projection of himself.

Eames followed Arthur out of the kitchen, and when he glanced behind at the man while shrugging into his coat, he was relieved to note that while Eames looked a little bemused and somewhat confounded, he didn't appear upset or suspicious.

So far, so good.

***

The morning sun was a thing of the past as they walked down the empty sidewalk. The clouds were heavier and more threatening than they had been the last time Arthur had seen it overcast in Eames' dream. He wondered if it was indicative of the man's mood, or if it was just happenstance.

Well, they were in a shared dream that had been created by Eames' mind. It was highly unlikely that anything would happen here that didn't have at least _some_ significance, conscious or subconscious. Arthur was well aware of that. He just couldn't figure out _what_ the change in weather might signify.

Still, it wasn't an unpleasant walk to the coffee shop. They were both warmly bundled in their coats and Eames had a nice purple scarf that Arthur didn't think he'd ever seen the man wearing in the waking world. He was pretty sure he'd have remembered it.

There were still no projections on the sidewalks or driving vehicles in the streets, even though Arthur could see that there _were_ customers and clerks in the shops and cafes that they passed. He wanted to ask Eames why this was, but he couldn't without giving too much away.

"Arthur! Eames!" Ariadne cried as they entered the coffee shop. Arthur was a little worried that she might let slip the fact that he had stopped in without Eames a while ago.... But then, who was to say that the projection of Arthur hadn't gone out and done his own thing from time to time? After all, he'd left the apartment by himself for croissants that very morning. Projections and the way they were manifestations of the subconscious were often hard to understand or pin down; after years spent working in the dream-share, Arthur was well aware of this fact.

"Hey, Ariadne," Eames greeted her easily, with a lazy grin and an even lazier wave of his hand. "How've you been doing?"

She still looked adorable and far more feminine here than in reality, with her high ponytail, bouncy curls, and pink cheeks.

"I've been good," she replied with a diffident shrug, then added with a wide grin, "Even better now that you're both here. I missed my two favorite customers!"

Arthur cast a glance around as he and Eames made their way into the coffee shop. Ariadne was already making their drinks as they moved, without bothering to take any orders; not that either of them minded. There were only three patrons in the shop besides themselves, and no one so much as looked their way as they reached the counter.

"Sorry to've been away so long, love," Eames apologized smoothly, giving Ariadne a guileless grin. "You know how it is."

"Not really," Ariadne replied candidly, sliding Eames' drink toward him and starting on Arthur's. "But I'm willing to take your word for it. Just don't let it happen again."

She softened the scolding words with a sweet smile, then Arthur's drink was done and she refused payment.

"On the house," she said, still smiling, her eyes bright. If Arthur hadn't known that the real Ariadne would never wear her hair like that or sling espressos in a coffee shop, he might almost have been able to forget that this was a projection. "I'm just happy to see you guys again!"

"Sorry," Eames apologized again, clearly meaning it, as he sipped his latte. He was leaning against the counter and didn't seem inclined to move, but then, it didn't look as though there were going to be any new customers coming in any time soon.

Holding his coffee in one hand, Arthur reached over with the other and hooked one finger in Eames' belt loop. Eames had changed into slacks after his shower, and while Arthur missed seeing him in jeans, he figured it was probably something best left for private, when it was just the two of them in the apartment.

Using the finger he had in the belt loop, Arthur tugged. Since Eames was leaning, this served more to reel Arthur in toward him than the other way around, but that had been Arthur's aim in the first place. He crowded close to Eames, their thighs hard and powerfully-muscled where they pressed together, and once there he didn't move.

He could _feel_ Eames' surprise in the sudden stiffness and stillness with which he held himself, but he didn't shift, didn't move away, and he _did not_ remove his hand.

He noted that Eames didn't mention the waking world to Ariadne. Perhaps this was something he reserved only for his projection of Arthur. He thought that he kind of liked that idea.

"This is perfect, Ariadne. Thank you," he said, indicating his drink. Just because he was in a dream, speaking to a portion of Eames' subconscious, that didn't mean that he shouldn't be polite. And the drink really was perfect.

"Do you guys want to split a pastry?" Ariadne offered, indicating the case full of muffins and donuts. They did look delicious but Arthur was still full of the lunch that Eames had made for them and didn't have room for anything more than his coffee.

"No thanks," he replied, glancing at Eames to make sure he wasn't speaking out of turn in answering for both of them. Eames' face was twisted away, the tips of his ears pink, and Arthur smirked into his cup. It was rare that he was able to throw Eames off his game like this, and he reveled in the moment. Mostly, though, he was enjoying the feeling of Eames so close to him. Their bodies pressed together in a long, warm line. If he'd thought he could get away with palming Eames' ass, he totally would have done so.

Instead of groping Eames, Arthur simply left his hand where it was, his finger hooked in his belt loop, and his chest pressed to Eames' upper arm. After a few moments, Eames seemed to calm, relaxing a little, though his ears and the apples of his cheeks remained heated.

"Can't say I didn't offer," Ariadne said, stuffing a crueler in her mouth, and giving them a wide grin around the frosted pastry. Her eyes were bright and appraising, and Arthur was sure that he could read more than a little approval in her gaze as he stayed where he was, inside Eames' bubble of personal space. But then she'd already made her feelings on the matter known, back when Arthur had first wandered into this shop alone.

And Arthur knew that his encroaching on Eames like this was not unwelcome, because Ariadne -- a piece of Eames' subconscious -- had told him so. It was comforting and encouraging.

"So you're done with the work that's been keeping you away?" Ariadne asked, licking icing off her lips. She was just as lovely here in the dream as she was in the waking world. Evidently Eames' sexual preference didn't render him oblivious to the charms of the opposite gender; not that Arthur had expected it would.

"For the nonce," Eames replied, and only he could get away with saying something like that without sounding ridiculous. It was probably the accent, Arthur thought, grinning to himself.

Ariadne shot him a glance, and she definitely looked smug. Probably thought that Arthur was taking her advice, but, honestly, he was doing this because he wanted to.

A sudden rattling sound from the front of the coffee shop caught everyone's attention and Eames and Arthur turned in unison, reaching for weapons that weren't there. It was just rain, striking the glass of the window and door hard, not a scattered shower but a violent downpour, driven nearly sideways by a strong wind.

"Oh, bugger," Eames pronounced with great deliberation and intent. He risked a glance at Arthur, his flush faded now that Arthur's hand was no longer on his pants. "I don't suppose you've an umbrella secreted anywhere about your delightful person?"

Arthur smirked and moved closer, running his palm along the waistband of Eames' slacks, over the dip of his lower back. "I think you would have noticed," he murmured, and if he moved any closer, he'd have been dipping Eames over the counter behind them.

Not that this wasn't a tempting thought....

Eames' eyes rounded, as did his mouth. Arthur was assailed with a host of lewd, filthy thoughts. "Arthur... are you _flirting_?" he wanted to know.

"Eames, hush!" Ariadne interrupted, trying to sound stern even though her lips were turning up at the corners in a gleeful smile. "You'll make him clam up again!"

Eames looked properly cowed, and perhaps a little panicked, but Arthur wasn't inclined to move. Not _away_ from Eames, at any rate.

He supposed he couldn't blame Eames for being so surprised. He did try to keep up a harder, more professional front while he was working, and the only times he and Eames had really interacted had been when they were on a job together. He might have expected that after a certain amount of time Eames might have seen through that, but evidently he would have been wrong.

If nothing else, reading the story of their meetings together as written by Eames' subconscious had driven that fact home. Especially when it had supposed to have been written from Arthur's point of view.

Honestly, Arthur didn't know whether to be frustrated or intrigued that Eames had gotten Arthur's intentions and motivations so wrong. Either way, he definitely took it as a challenge.

He was going to have to _show_ Eames how wrong he was about Arthur. About the _real_ Arthur. And if that meant rediscovering himself at the same time, then so be it.

"Looks as though we're just going to have to make a run for it," he said, grinning widely.

Eames looked surprised and delighted in equal parts.

And they ran.

***

When they burst into the apartment they were both breathless from running, and also from laughter.

"I can't believe you forgot to bring an umbrella," Eames said, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt with cold fingers. He got it off, then stripped his undershirt over his head, and Arthur swallowed tightly.

It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep him from pouncing Eames right here in the entryway.

This wasn't the first time he had seen Eames without a shirt, but it was clearly the first time since Eames had gotten a couple of new tattoos.... And it was definitely the first time since Arthur had decided that he _wanted_ Eames.

Rain water ran over sculpted muscles, darkened the dusting of hairs on Eames' broad chest. His nipples were standing to attention in the chill, and his abdominals were tight, tense above his soaked pants.

Raising his eyes from Eames' torso, Arthur found he was just as captivated by the man's face. His nose and cheeks were pink with the cold, his lips were even more ruddy, a dark crimson. His hair was plastered to his skull for the most part, dripping down his cheeks and temples, but removing his undershirt had loosened some of it, wild strands sticking straight up in random places. It made Arthur grin to see, but it was more of a leer, he had to admit. Rain drops were glittering on Eames' face and chest, and his lashes were starred around eyes bright with humor.

If he'd noticed Arthur's lascivious stare, he must have chalked it up to his own imagination -- ironic, seeing as he thought Arthur was simply a projection of his subconscious -- or thought that he misread it.

"You didn't think to bring one either," Arthur felt compelled to point out, running a hand through his hair. He was just as wet as Eames, but he wasn't inclined to strip in the entryway. He was actually giving serious consideration to a hot shower; he was already soaked, so it only seemed prudent.

"I don't need to think; I have you," Eames countered with a wide grin. There went his slacks, falling in a dark puddle around his ankles. The boxer briefs he was wearing left absolutely nothing to Arthur's imagination.

"And...." Arthur almost choked on the word, overwhelmed by the sight before him. He wasn't cold any longer, heated arousal flooding his entire body. The wet material of his pants pressed against the sudden hardness of his dick, but he forced himself to continue the conversation, because he didn't want to call Eames' attention to his erection. Not right this instant, anyway. "And yet I _didn't_ bring an umbrella."

"S'all right," Eames assured him, giving him a wide smile before bending to collect his discarded clothing. "I forgive you."

Arthur probably should have said something snappy in return, but he was really only capable of watching Eames walk down the hall toward his bedroom, the thin material of his briefs clinging to the muscles of his ass in the same way Arthur's palms itched to do....

Arthur managed to stumble into the bathroom, commandeering the shower. And if he took himself in hand with a clear mental image of Eames' ass, Eames' chest, Eames' mouth... well, that was what was required to prevent him from leaving the bathroom to jump Eames and thoroughly molest him. As much as he _wanted_ to do so, he was well aware that it would have been too much too soon. There was very little chance of it going well, and then all his planning would have been for nothing.

That didn't stop him from visualizing, though, or from getting himself off. And if he'd had any doubts as to whether he wanted Eames sexually -- not that he had, but _if_ he had -- the strength of the orgasm that this indulgence gave him would have knocked any doubts right out of his mind.

 _Not_ that he'd doubted it by this point.

***

"Looks as though you've properly warmed up now," Eames remarked cheerfully as Arthur finally wandered back into the living area.

Eames was wearing a thick heather sweater and a pair of dark sweatpants, and his hair was drying in wild tufts that reminded Arthur of the crabgrass in his parents' lawn while he'd been growing up. Eames' hair would be much softer, though, he knew, and he wanted to run his fingers through it.

Arthur had put on a pair of sweats himself, with a heavy flannel plaid over top of a faded teeshirt that he thought was Eames', even though he'd found it in his projection's room. The heat was on high in the apartment, he could tell, and he was still warm and tingling from his climax in the shower, but it felt good to bundle up.

And, yes, he was wearing the horrible yellow socks... and, yes, they were even warmer and softer than they had looked.

Damn it.

Archibald was curled up on the loveseat, right in the middle. The curtains were pulled to, but Arthur could hear the rain and wind still raging outside. Eames was in the kitchen, making them tea, and Arthur didn't even bother to think it over before he crossed to join the other man. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Eames' cheek that felt _right_ , and then reached up to touch his hair. After all, he had resisted the urge to tumble Eames to the floor when the man had been nearly naked in the entryway. Allowing himself this small indulgence now was hardly any big thing.

"Are you feeling all right?" Eames asked, his brow wrinkling, and Arthur hated that a simple act of affection had drawn that sort of query from the other man.

"I feel great," he said, which wasn't a lie, even though he was a bit melancholy over the fact that Eames thought him to be a projection, even though the storm battering the building was an indication that Eames wasn't as at ease as he might appear. Because he was here with Eames, they were safe, and warm, and Eames was smiling at him as though he actually liked him.

"Do we have a plan for this evening?" Arthur asked. He withdrew his hand from Eames' hair, but before he could slip it around Eames' waist again, the man moved away from him, getting down a couple of mugs from the cupboard.

"Nothing planned," Eames rumbled, and his low, husky voice made Arthur think of sex... or maybe that was just _Eames_. He licked his lips, but he had to be good.

For now, anyway.

They ended up on the sofa; both of them, since Archibald refused to give up his spot on the loveseat. Arthur certainly didn't mind. Having Eames' thigh under his head, Eames' fingers in his hair, was just as satisfying as he had expected it would be when he had first seen the projection of himself in the same position.

The book was Ian Fleming, a worn, tattered paperback that had obviously seen much use and been well loved, well read. There was Eames' name -- his real name -- written on the inside cover in careful, childish script, and Arthur felt a tugging at his heart. He quickly found himself captivated by the story.

It was as much impressive as it was proof of how many times Eames must have read this as a boy, that nearly the whole text was contained in the yellowed pages. There were a few spots where the print was blurred, where a paragraphs or two was missing, but overall the entirety of the book was here, inside of Eames' dream. Arthur knew that it was perfectly possible to memorize plays or operas, people did it all the time, he had done so himself in the past, but he'd never bothered to learn a book the way that Eames' had done this one.

And he could be certain that his own subconscious was not helping things along, because he had never in his life so much as glanced at "On Her Majesty's Secret Service".

"Comfy?" Eames asked at one point. The rain was striking the window as though it was trying to break in, but the heat was pumping through the floor vents, and the cat had come to curl up on Arthur's stomach. They were out of tea, but Arthur was disinclined to let Eames up so that he could make them more.

"Absolutely," he replied honestly, tipping his head back a little to give Eames an upside-down smile. And he felt even more of a curl of warmth in his chest when Eames traced one of his dimples with a light fingertip.

He could have remained like this forever. It was just too bad that wasn't possible.

Well. And even more so that Eames wasn't aware he was the real Arthur.

But it wasn't quite time yet to do anything about that.

***

They made dinner together, talked about a variety of subjects while they ate, then played a game of chess. Eames seemed surprised that Arthur wasn't immediately focusing on his laptop, but he'd gotten as much out of it as he could. Besides, he'd seen the projection of himself interact with Eames in preference to typing, more than once in fact.

Arthur wanted to jibe at Eames about how it was hardly sporting to play chess against his own subconscious, but he didn't. He might be here, imitating the projection of himself, deliberately not telling Eames the truth of the matter. But lying by omission was something completely different than flat-out speaking a falsehood. Arthur was comfortable _pretending_ to be a projection, but he wasn't okay with the idea of _saying_ that he was a projection.

He came out the victor, but it only barely, and it took them hours. He wasn't surprised, either by Eames' patience or the fact that he had given Arthur such a close game. Arthur was done underestimating Eames.

"I suppose we should head for bed," Eames said, as they collected the pieces and put them away. It was nearing midnight and the storm outside hadn't lessened any. Archibald was still somewhere in the apartment, and Arthur didn't begrudge him this. Even though the cat was only a projection, it would have taken someone with a far harder heart than Arthur possessed to put the thing out in weather like they were experiencing.

They shared the sink, as Arthur had seen his projection doing with Eames, and there was Archibald, perched on the edge of the tub, giving them both a wide-eyed stare, watching them brush their teeth as though they were performing a trick solely for his amusement. To be honest, Arthur would have pegged Eames as being a dog person, but he didn't mind too much being proven wrong. Dogs could be loyal and noble, but there was an independence and pride to cats that he thought suited Eames just as much, if not more.

"Good game," Eames said to Arthur as they parted ways in the hall outside the bathroom. Archibald sauntered between their ankles and into Eames' room, tail waving like a banner. Arthur was completely and utter jealous of the cat, because he knew that it was going to be sharing the man's bed tonight.

"You too," he said, and Eames leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. Arthur very much wanted to turn his head and catch Eames' lips with his own, but he needed to be careful not to rush things too badly.

He already suspected that a large part of this stormy weather was due to his presence here, and the ways in which he had already deviated from his projection's usual behavior. It only made sense. Normally it would be projections rising up against him, but in Eames' dream there were very few projections to be seen, and only one inside the apartment. While Archibald didn't seem inclined to attack Arthur -- for which he was grateful, since the cat had some long, sharp claws -- the pounding rain and the howling wind that were buffeting the apartment building were more than likely a reflection of Eames' growing unease.

"Goodnight," Eames said. He touched Arthur's jaw lightly, his expression soft, longing, and very, very weary. Arthur wanted to grab Eames and kiss him breathless, make him _realize_ that it was all right, that he was here and he wanted this... but he couldn't. Not right now.

As before, he had a plan, and he needed to give himself time to put it into action.

"Sleep well," he replied, giving Eames as gentle a smile as he could manage, and then indulging in a quick pat of one tight ass cheek to send him on his way.

Eames' eyes widened, but he was smiling as he went into his bedroom, and it was an honest smile.

***

Arthur hadn't thought that it would be possible to sleep within a dream. At least not without a second PASIV device, taking one to a deeper level. He'd certainly not tried it before, having always been working or preparing for work when he had been in the dream-share in the past.

But he discovered as he lay down and closed his eyes that it was indeed possible. And that, while sleeping, he had natural, unstructured dreams, like he'd used to have before the Somnacin had stolen that ability from him.

It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. He woke the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to put his plans into motion.

***

It was a two prong attack that he had in mind, and Arthur might have felt clever if he hadn't been so anxious over whether or not it was going to work.

The first part of it was easy. All he had to do was give himself free rein to do what he wanted, to put his hands on Eames, to linger and caress....

He started slow, small, and built up to more intimate, more intrusive, less subtle touches. Eames was startled, each and every time, but Arthur felt that he was making progress.

He had, after all, three more days in which to work. He wasn't going to rush things, but neither was he going to risk blowing this, his only chance.

The second part of his plan was more subtle, but even more important, Arthur thought. When he wasn't molesting Eames, or just spending time getting to know the man -- because that part of it was important too -- he was on the laptop. Much as his projection had been, and just like the projection, Arthur was cataloguing the details of his previous interactions with Eames. Unlike the projection, however, Arthur was writing what had _really_ happened, from _his own_ point of view.

Even though Eames wasn't going to be reading it, the laptop was a part of his subconscious. Arthur hoped that getting it down like this, in bold text, might have some sort of an effect on Eames, might make the man more open to the reality of Arthur's interest when he revealed the fact that he had taken the place of the projection of himself. When he told Eames the truth, that he was the real Arthur.

That was his intent, at any rate. And he very much hoped that it was going to work, because otherwise he was wasting time he could have spent seducing Eames more aggressively.

***

By the evening of the fourth day Arthur had finished writing up his story on the laptop, and he had a distinct awareness of the fact that he was running out of time. Neither he nor Eames had set up any warning music, but Arthur's sense of time was just as good inside the dream-share as it was in the waking world, and he knew that any minute now they would blink awake, side by side on Eames' bed in his villa on the coast.

He wasn't ready to leave the dream yet, but at the same time he couldn't do much more here. It was a paradox. And as much as he normally loved a good paradox, this one was making him a bit crazy.

They had finished dinner and Eames was pouring them both some wine, standing at the kitchen counter. Arthur had noted that Eames generally tended to prefer tea or even coffee to alcohol, here in the dream-share. It made sense. He'd said more than once that there was nothing more sad than drinking alone. And seeing that he thought Arthur was only a projection, formed from his own subconscious....

But he _wasn't_ alone. Arthur was not a projection. And it was time to let Eames know this.

Arthur stepped up to Eames, placing his hands on the man's waist. His fingers stretched over the material of his slacks, and Arthur pressed closer, leaning in to kiss the nape of Eames' neck, between his messy hair and his collar.

"Arthur..." Eames rumbled, his voice barely audible over the roar of the wind and the rattle of rain. The storm had not let up in the last three days, had only gotten stronger with each hour that passed, but Arthur was just grateful that the weather seemed to be the only disturbance. So far there had been no angry projections banging at the apartment door, demanding Arthur's blood.

"Eames," he echoed, and Eames set down the wine bottle, turning within the circle of Arthur's arms. He felt a tightening in his chest at the distressed expression on Eames' face, at the darkness in his eyes. Instead of backing off, ever mindful of the ticking clock, he slipped his arms more closely around Eames' waist and stepped right into his space, leaning forward the inch that it took in order to press their mouths together.

He was barely able to process the softness of Eames' lips, the plush give and the slight prickle of stubble, before Eames had his hands on Arthur's shoulders, pushing him away.

"Don't," Eames instructed in a low, raspy husk. His palms were warm and heavy, his brows quirked upward in the middle, his gaze sorrowful. "Just... don't. Okay?"

"Why not?" Arthur asked. He didn't push forward again, but neither did he move away. He had Eames where he wanted him, finally, and he wasn't about to let him go.

"Because Arthur wouldn't..." Eames paused, took a breath, shook his head slightly. "The _real_ Arthur wouldn't approve."

"Fair enough," Arthur replied, smiling, because this only endeared Eames to him all the more. He wasn't surprised; just pleased. He tipped his head to the side. It was time to stop playing, to lay all his cards on the table. "But what if I were the real Arthur?"

Eames huffed out a little laugh, his fingers twitching on Arthur's upper chest. "Very.... Very funny," he said, his voice wobbling more than he had probably wanted it to. There was real pain in his eyes, and Arthur intended to make it go away. "You're not. You know that you're not. _I_ know you're not."

"Oh?" Arthur tightened his hands on Eames' hips. "How do you know I'm not?" he challenged.

"I know you're not, because..." Eames licked his lips, his eyes still wide and round. He looked as though he would run if Arthur twitched the wrong way. "Because if you were the real Arthur, you _wouldn't be here_."

Arthur just about felt his heart break at this certain reply, though he couldn't have said he wasn't expecting it. Before he could stop himself, he had lunged forward, claiming those plump red lips in a kiss as searing as he had been imagining for the past week... and more, counting real time.

Eames let out a startled sound against Arthur's lips, going stiff in his arms, before melting into him completely. He wasn't kissing back... exactly... but he was letting Arthur ravage his mouth, and that was progress of a sort.

Arthur had it all worked out in his mind. He was going to kiss Eames breathless, and then, before the man could collect his scattered wits, he was going to explain things, quickly and yet succinctly, with great specificity. He wanted to leave Eames with no doubts as to reality, as to his intent. He wanted a chance to kiss Eames like this again, with Eames as a willing and eager participant.

It just figured that before he was even finished sticking his tongue in Eames' hot, wine-tart mouth, they ran out of time on the PASIV device.

***

Arthur and Eames both awoke and sat up at nearly the exact same time. Eames' head swiveled around and he stared at Arthur for a moment in stunned disbelief. The expression of complete and utter shock might have been amusing, had it not been for the roiling of anxiety and hope that was burning in Arthur's stomach, making his heart beat faster.

"Eames," he said, reaching out for the other man, ready to offer that explanation now, here in the waking world. "Listen."

Eames' mouth worked silently a moment, and then he was in motion.

Before Arthur could get himself disentangled from the PASIV device and off the bed, Eames was out the door and gone.

"Shit!"

Eames was gone and somehow Arthur didn't think that he was coming back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Fischer job, some of the former team come together once again, but there is something off about Eames. Can Arthur and Ariadne find out what's going on and can Arthur figure out how to fix it?

"Hello?"

"He ran," Arthur said as soon as Cobb answered the phone, not even bothering to return the man's greeting.

"What happened?" Cobb didn't sound at all surprised, which was itself not really very surprising.

"It's too complicated to explain right now," Arthur told him, because this was nothing more nor less than the truth. Not that he'd be willing to tell Cobb about Eames' little dream hide-away, much less how Arthur had invaded it.

Then, he paused a moment to consider the fact that if _anyone_ in the world could understand and sympathize with Eames over his domestic set-up with a projection of Arthur, it would be Cobb....

Still, that didn't mean Arthur was going to tell him. There were some things that were just private. Both for Eames and for Arthur. Even with all the secretive bullshit Cobb had pulled before and during the Fischer job, Arthur had sneaked into Eames' dream and pretended to be a projection for four dream-days. And, well, that was pretty morally indefensible. Just because Arthur didn't think that Cobb would judge him for it, that didn't mean he wanted to _tell_ the other man.

"You're going after him?" Cobb asked, as though it was in question.

"Of course." Arthur was a little insulted that Cobb had voiced the question. "Just as soon as I figure out where he went."

"Do you need my help?"

Arthur frowned, taking this question literally as well as in the spirit it had been asked. "Need? No," he replied honestly. "But if you _can_ help, I'll take anything you can give me."

Cobb snorted out a little laugh. "I'm pretty sure there isn't anything I can do that you can't do for yourself."

Arthur gave it some serious consideration. "Well.... Yeah. But the truth is, I can't do two things at once. So if I need your help, I'll let you know."

Cobb laughed again, but quickly sobered. "Just keep me updated, Arthur. I mean it; I want to know what happens. And don't forget that whatever you need, if I can do it, I will."

"Thank you," Arthur said simply.

Because sometimes it _was_ that simple.

***

Eames had left everything behind. All his clothing, his hygiene items... even his shoes, meaning he'd run out in his stocking feet. Most importantly, he hadn't taken his PASIV device. Which was a _clear_ indication of how panicked and upset he had been, because those things were worth millions. Hell, in their line of work they were priceless. After all, it would be impossible to enter the dream-share without one, rendering their entire profession useless.

On the one hand, perhaps Eames was trusting Arthur to take good care of his device. On the other... well, maybe he just _hadn't been thinking_ when he had rolled off the bed and run.

Unfortunately, if Arthur was a betting man, he'd have gone with that second option. He definitely considered it to be by far the more likely probability.

Once he got off the phone with Cobb, Arthur quickly packed everything that Eames had left behind in his villa. All the time he was doing so, he was hoping that Eames would walk back in the door, and all the time he knew that it wasn't going to happen.

He tried to feel guilty while he collected all of Eames' things. After all, it had been his violation of Eames' personal dream that had sent Eames running immediately upon waking. But, honestly, he didn't feel very guilty; mostly he was just concerned. Eames was out there without his shoes, without his wallet, without his PASIV device... and without the knowledge of why exactly Arthur had done what he had done. Because he had fled before Arthur could explain.

Arthur really regretted that he hadn't tried to explain sooner, but feeling regret wasn't the same thing as feeling guilt. Maybe he ought to feel guilty, but mostly he was focused on _finding Eames_. Everything was dependant upon that. He wasn't going to be able to explain, to question, to _grab and kiss and fondle_.... Not until he had tracked Eames down.

It would have been a lot easier if Eames had taken his phone, Arthur thought with a grimace. Then he could have just used the built-in GPS chip to locate him. But, no, there Eames' phone was, right next to the man's wallet on the bedside table. Arthur sighed, packing both, and making a last sweep of the villa.

He'd gotten everything that Eames had left behind, including the man's PASIV device. He had actually moved a lot more slowly than he would otherwise have been inclined to do, even taken the time to call Cobb, in the faintest of hopes that Eames might reconsider and return.

But now he was as ready to leave the villa, and stalling any longer would get him nowhere. He'd only fall further behind Eames, wherever the man had gotten to.

Arthur left the villa, locking it behind him. Eames hadn't had a car, but Arthur could see an empty spot where a local resident's bicycle had been. Considering that he'd gotten out the door almost as quickly as Eames had done, and there hadn't been any sign of the man, Arthur didn't think he was wrong in guessing that Eames had "borrowed" the bike. They were on the edge of a fair-sized town. which was how Eames had been able to lose Arthur immediately, despite Arthur having a rented vehicle. There had just been too many streets that Eames could have taken, too many places he could have hidden. Arthur was certain that despite his lack of a wallet and shoes, Eames was well on his way out of town. And so the sooner Arthur got started after him, the better.

Eames was wily. But Arthur was just as wily, as well as being very stubborn and _very_ dedicated to this cause.

He _would_ track Eames down.

***

Arthur was determined, he had resources upon resources, he had executed similar man hunts successfully in the past, but in the end, it was actually _Cobb_ , of all people, who found Eames for him.

Well, in a manner of speaking.

It had been almost a week since Eames had run, and every time Arthur thought that he was getting close, he either discovered he'd been chasing a ghost or else he lost the faint trail. It was frustrating, true, but more than that, it made him sad and upset. He wasn't surprised that Eames was avoiding him, but he couldn't help wishing that the other man would just... just _let_ Arthur catch up with him. He wanted a chance to explain. He wanted to find a way to erase that panicked, shocked, betrayed look that had been in Eames' eyes when he had awakened and found Arthur beside him in the bed.

He still didn't feel guilty, but he wasn't going to feel right about anything that had happened until he'd gotten a chance to talk to Eames about it.

"How's it going?" Cobb asked overly casually when Arthur answered the phone on his sixth day of searching, hunting, traveling. Arthur had barely slept, he was living off of caffeine, and he needed a long, hot bath, a lot of sleep, and some serious emotional resolution, not necessarily in that order. He could tell from Cobb's tone of voice that the man _knew_ something, and it took everything he had in him not to snap and bite his head off.

"You know how it's going," he replied, well aware his voice was giving away how thin he had stretched himself, how short his fuse was. "Now tell me why you called; tell me what you know."

Cobb had the gall to _chuckle_ , and it was only the rising hope that he was feeling that kept Arthur from hanging up. There was no way Cobb would be calling him and sounding this cheerful if he didn't have good news. This entire situation might not directly affect Cobb, but he wasn't so much of a dick that he would be in a good mood if he didn't have something for Arthur.

"So I was talking to Miles just now, and he happened to mention having unexpectedly seen a familiar face in a grocery near the university," Cobb said, and that was enough to have Arthur's heart leaping in his chest, a physically painful sensation. "It sounds as though Eames might have come full circle."

"Yeah," Arthur gasped breathlessly, trying to calculate how quickly he was going to be able to fly to Paris. It had been a sound strategy on Eames' part; Arthur was nowhere near that part of the world, and he never would have suspected that the man might return there. "I just hope I can get there in time...."

"Miles also said he doesn't think Eames saw him," Cobb offered, sounding very calm and reassuring. Which Arthur really appreciated, because it felt a little as though Arthur's heart was going to beat its way out of his chest right now, as though he was on the verge of breaking to pieces. "Hopefully he doesn't know he's been made, and he won't be on the move yet. Of course I told Miles not to approach Eames if he saw him again. I had to promise I would tell him all about it later."

"Uh-huh." Arthur wasn't really paying attention, as he collected his luggage and prepared to leave the hotel room he'd been taking a moment try to catch a little sleep in. "Thanks."

"Look," Cobb said. "Just tell me where you are, head for the nearest airport, and I'll call Saito. We'll make sure you get to Paris as quickly as possible. Okay?"

"Do you think Saito will help?" Arthur blurted. He wasn't the sort of beg favors, but in this case he would definitely make an exception. He had enough money left from the Fischer job that he could fly pretty much anywhere he wanted, but Saito was capable of cutting through swathes of red tape in ways that Arthur just didn't have the resources for.

"I know he will," Cobb said, and whether this confidence was true or false, Arthur didn't care. He was going to take Cobb's advice and trust the man to keep his word. At worst Arthur could buy himself a plane ticket once he reached the airport. At best... well, at best Cobb would indeed get Saito's help, and Arthur could be on his way all the more speedily.

"Thanks," he said, thumb already hovering over the end call button.

He was pretty sure that he didn't hear Cobb say, "Go get him, tiger," as he hung up Because if he had, well, then he would have lost all respect for the man.

***

Arthur fell asleep on his way to France, and slept the sleep of the deeply relieved and even more deeply exhausted. Cobb had indeed been able to contact Saito, and Saito had been both wiling and able to help. Arthur suspected the man of having a soft spot for Eames, but whatever the reason, he was deeply grateful. Both for the swiftness of the trip, and for the soft and comfortable seat he nodded off in.

Landing in Paris was a little surreal, but that might just be because Arthur was still a little punchy from stress and lack of sleep. Whatever the cause, he walked out of the airport in something of a daze, and felt an actual swell of warmth when he saw Professor Miles waiting for him.

"I didn't expect you to meet me here," he protested, unable to wipe the obvious look of relief off his face as he walked over to where the older man was leaning back against a small car.

"I rarely do what is expected of me," Miles said calmly, smiling and taking the bag from Arthur's hand. "But I like to think I do what I can for my friends."

Arthur returned his smile, but he was distracted and he thought that it might have come out a little lopsided. Certainly Miles' friendly expression dissolved into an unabashedly sympathetic look, his face still kind but his eyes dolorous.

"Do you want to get some rest?" Miles offered mildly, as he popped the trunk and settled Arthur's luggage inside. "It's no use rushing off to confront your Eames when you're running on fumes, my boy."

Arthur felt his smile firm up and widen, merely from the sound of Miles describing Eames as "his". It might not be true yet, but he wasn't going to rest until it was. Eames might be angry at him, he might be feeling betrayed, but Arthur knew Eames' real feelings on the matter thanks to his sojourn in the man's dreams, thanks to his conversations with Eames' subconscious, and he refused to believe that he'd lost his chance forever.

It might take him a long time to gain Eames' forgiveness. Arthur couldn't know until he'd spoken to him. But he wouldn't let it rest until he'd gotten it.

"I slept on the plane," he told Miles, and that was true. He could have used some more sleep, much more sleep, but he would settle for what he had already snatched. And, besides, the truth of it was; "I don't want to risk losing Eames again."

Miles nodded, as though that was the reply he had been expecting -- it probably had been -- and they got into the car and were on their way.

***

To his credit, Eames didn't really look surprised to see Arthur.

Once Arthur had gotten a good idea of the general area where Miles had seen the forger, it had taken him less than two hours to find where he was staying. Aiding him in this was the fact that Eames had leased a small apartment using a false name that he'd employed before in the past. Arthur really wished he could believe that this was because Eames either consciously or unconsciously wanted Arthur to find him.... But it might just have been that Eames didn't know that Arthur was aware of this particular alias.

Either way, Arthur had found him and there was no way he was going to miss this chance. He was going to strike immediately, even though an apartment was more indicative of an extended stay than a hotel room would have been.

Arthur was done with being sneaky, so he made sure that Eames was home when he broke in. And, okay, maybe breaking in wasn't the best way to get back into Eames' good graces, but Arthur wasn't going to take the chance of knocking. Not only would Eames almost certainly deny him entrance, but they were only on the second floor so it was entirely possible that Eames might go out the window in order to avoid him.

Entering through the door cut off that avenue of escape, at least. The gun in Arthur's hand should hopefully keep Eames from trying any other method.

Eames was sitting at a small table in a corner of the tiny apartment that seemed to be intended to be the kitchen, holding a cup of tea and looking for all the world as though he had been expecting Arthur. Maybe he had been.

Arthur took a long moment to soak in the sight of Eames. He looked good. Well, to be completely accurate, he looked miserable and haggard -- much as Arthur knew he himself did -- but he was _here_ and Arthur was seeing him with his own two eyes. And so, for that alone, Arthur felt that he looked amazing.

The rosy glow of affection aside, Eames looked as good as he did bad, in that contrary way of his. His hair was messy because he hadn't been taking care of it, but this look suited him better than the severe side-part had done. His features were sharp with a combination of anger, fear, and perhaps... hope? Or maybe the hope was only in Arthur's own heart. There were dark bruises shadowing Eames' eyes, and he looked as though he had bitten his lips raw, but Arthur thought that only added to the charm of his familiar face. It made him want to hold Eames and take care of him; a thought that wasn't so new, after the time they had spent together in the dream-share, though it probably wouldn't have occurred to Arthur before then. Eames' clothes were rumpled and looked slept in. Again, much the same as Arthur's. They really made quite the pair.

Now. It was just up to Arthur to make sure that they came out of this conversation as an actual _pair_ , if at all possible.

Hence the gun.

"Arthur," Eames said. And his voice might not curl warmly around his name the way Arthur liked, the way he preferred, the way he desperately _missed_ and needed to hear, but he didn't sound as though he was going to dismiss Arthur out of hand. Arthur took heart from this fact.

Arthur gave Eames a small smile. Literally hundreds of opening lines had been running through his mind the entire time he had been searching for Eames, but now that he was here, he just opened his mouth and said what came to him first.

"Ariadne is going to be angry with you."

Eames' brows rose. He seemed as much intrigued as nonplussed, his lips pursing in a plump circle of confusion as he gave Arthur a slow blink. "What?"

"Well." Arthur shrugged, being careful not to shift or lower the gun that was still pointed at Eames; though he was also very deliberately not aiming for anything vital. "If I recall correctly, you promised to make good on her duck-feeding raincheck the very next time you were in Paris. And yet here you are, not a single duck in sight. Or have you contacted her already?"

Eames pouted at him. "You never have played fair, have you." It wasn't really a question and so Arthur didn't bother answering. Eames sighed heavily. "Here I am, prepared to defend myself against anything that you might say, and you have to go and drag our lovely little erstwhile architect into the conversation."

"You shouldn't feel the need to defend yourself," Arthur protested, frowning. Whether Eames meant that he expected Arthur to confront him over the projection of himself in his dream, or whether he simply meant that he was going to remain strong and stone-hearted against any apologies Arthur might make for invading his dream, they were _talking_. And continued conversation was a _good_ thing.

"Says the man holding a bloody gun on me," Eames shot back with a wry twist to his mouth, and Arthur had to admit that he had a point. At least he didn't sound angry or upset over this fact. If anything, he almost sounded... amused. Only not really.

"Well." Arthur shrugged again, but he had no intention of lowering his weapon. He'd chased Eames for too far and too long to risk it all now. "Yeah."

"Come now, Arthur," Eames wheedled. "You're not the sort of man who would shoot me in cold blood." He paused, seeming to reconsider. "Not topside, at any rate."

"You know, I wouldn't have thought so either," Arthur replied conversationally, the barrel of his gun not wavering in the slightest. "But I've come to realize something about myself. I've come to realize that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get you to listen to me. So if I have to wing you, I'll do it. I'll feel like shit about it afterward, don't get me wrong. But I _won't_ hesitate and it _will_ be enough to incapacitate you."

Eames opened and closed his mouth, his eyes wide and fixed on Arthur's face, perhaps searching for signs of sincerity there. He must have found it -- or maybe it was just shades of insanity -- because after a few moments he swallowed tightly and said in a tone that tried for light but sounded more strangled, "Well, I guess I'd best sit here and give you a listen, then." He waved a hand vaguely, making Arthur aware that all this time Eames had not removed his other hand from the handle of his tea cup. He seemed frozen in place, where he had been sitting when Arthur had entered the room. "Care to have a seat as well? Or would that potentially impede your aim too badly?"

Arthur gave it a moment of consideration. Long, serious consideration.

"I'll be happy to sit," he finally said slowly, thumbing the safety back on. "And I'll be even more happy to put the gun away if you promise to both listen to me and talk to me, without running again."

"And what's that worth; the promise of a thief and a liar?" Eames asked, his tone easy but his expression sharp and intent.

Arthur smiled crookedly. "I trust you. Please trust me," he requested as he put the gun away and sat across the table from Eames. The tiny apartment here could have fit in the corner of Eames' dream-share home, but it was filled with the golden glow of afternoon and even though it looked nothing like it, it reminded Arthur a little of that fantasy apartment. Maybe that was why Eames had chosen it. This was the waking world, though, and Arthur hoped that he could make things _better_ than the dream, for both of them

Something in Eames' face broke open, but Arthur couldn't tell yet whether it was a good break. "I... I do," he replied, slumping down in his chair but not taking his eyes off of Arthur. "Maybe it's foolish of me, but I've always trusted you. Even back before I'd learned that I could."

"I'm sorry for sneaking into your dream like that," Arthur said, deciding to get that out there immediately. "I want to make that clear. I don't regret doing it, but I do apologize."

Eames was staring at him, his grey eyes clear and pale in the clean sunlight. He smiled, small and as crooked as Arthur's smile, but it was an honest expression. "I'm just thrilled to know that you don't want to castrate me, Arthur," he replied. "I never expected you to apologize."

Arthur shook his head. "You know as well as I do that a person has no control over their subconscious, Eames," he said, and since there was an extra cup he poured himself some tea, even though he didn't really intend to drink it. It was something to do with his hands, and it gave the tableau they were in the illusion of civility. "Unless you want to tell me that you created that projection of me deliberately."

He raised his brows, because it could very well be that Eames _had_ , even though he didn't think so.

"I didn't," Eames assured him, proving Arthur's point, shaking his head. "He just showed up once I built my dream... and the rest you know."

Arthur grimaced slightly. He knew. "Why did you build that dream?" he asked quietly, leaning forward, fixing Eames with an intent stare. That was the one thing he'd been wondering about since he had first discovered its existence. Especially once he had realized that Eames wasn't taking advantage of the projection of Arthur in his dream.

Eames bit his lower lip and his eyes flashed downward. "I...."

"I know about your mother's death," Arthur prompted gently, reaching across the small table and daring to close his fingers around Eames' wrist. It was the first time he had touched him since they had awakened from the dream-share, and it was like raw electricity darting over the entire surface of his skin. He held himself in check, though, because this was an important, a vital conversation. "I'm very sorry for that."

Eames glanced up at him, shocked for all of half a second. Then this shock dissolved into a chagrinned expression. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you found out," he remarked easily. "And thank you."

"I'm only surmising that her passing was the catalyst," Arthur added, and he wasn't going to let go of Eames' wrist unless the man twisted to break his grip. He hoped to make an emotional connection as well as this physical one, but the physical touch helped.

"It was, I guess." Eames drew in a long, steady breath. "I'm.... You see, when Mum died.... I realized that there was no one left in the world who love me." he nipped at his lower lip, teeth denting the red swell. "It's true that I hadn't seen her in close to ten years, but I knew that she still loved me, that she always would, no matter what. And now she's gone, which means that there's no one left who cares about me, sometimes despite myself."

Arthur could feel that he was frowning deeply. "Okay, so, you're completely wrongheaded in that last," he said sharply. "But let's set that point aside for a moment. How did that thought lead to you creating your dream-world?"

Eames faltered, staring at him blankly for a moment, as though Arthur had gone off script or something. "It was." He licked his lips, and Arthur couldn't help tracking the movement with an internal burst of sexual arousal, even though they were in the middle of a very serious discussion that could very well determine how they were going to live the rest of their lives. "At first it was somewhere quiet to go. To get away from my buzzing brain. Somewhere I could cry in private. Somewhere that I wouldn't _want_ to cry." He spoke flippantly, but Arthur could hear the truth in his words, and his heart ached for Eames. "And then I met you-- him."

Arthur nodded. "You said quiet," he inserted, having most of the story now and wanting to get some of the details that had been bothering him. "That was something I was wondering about. Why was it so empty? You had shops and they had patrons, but there were no cars, no pedestrians. It _had_ to have been a conscious decision on your part."

Eames grinned mirthlessly and shrugged. "Honestly, I just didn't want to deal with a lot of people, even if they were just figments of my own imagination. At first I made the effort to keep things quiet, but after a while that was just the way the dream _was_."

Arthur nodded. That made sense. It had been a month and a half since Eames' mother had died. If Eames had been dreaming regularly in the time since then, of course his subconscious would have picked up on what had originally been a deliberate choice. He could understand that, and he could sympathize. He knew that Eames usually liked to be in the center of things, wanted to be where the action was. But after the death of his mother, a nice quiet dream he could escape into, with no pressures, no noisy strangers, and a comforting home and projection of Arthur... well, it must have come to seem almost necessary. So that was nearly all of Arthur's questions answered. Now he needed to get a few other things straight between them.

"You do know that that's bullshit, what you said about no one caring, right?" he said, coming back to that, his voice low and intense. "Just try that line on Ariadne, I dare you. And you'd better _never_ try it on me again."

Eames smiled, and it looked rueful, sheepish, and yet somehow faintly feral at the same time. "Before this last extraction we did with Ariadne I would have argued with you until we were both blue in the face. But, like you said, we had all changed by the time that job was over with."

Arthur squeezed Eames' wrist but didn't let go. "And by then you'd already created you dream world," he supplied. "But that doesn't explain why you were still entering it when you could have been hanging out with Ariadne and me."

Eames flushed faintly, a delightful burst of rosy color in his otherwise wan cheeks. "I guess... force of habit? And I didn't know that I'd be welcome. I thought maybe the two of you needed some time alone. Together."

Arthur couldn't help rolling his eyes, barely restraining himself from snorting scornfully. For someone who was so observant, sometimes Eames could be remarkably dense. "Really? You thought _that_?"

Eames flushed more deeply and outright pouted at Arthur. "Well, how was I to know, until you grabbed me and kissed me in the dream?!"

Arthur couldn't help it; he grinned wolfishly at Eames.

"How long was that you, anyway?" Eames pressed, and it was only fair that he ask his own questions. It was certainly his turn. "And why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Now it was Arthur's turn to flush slightly. "Do you remember the morning that the projection went out for croissants?" he murmured, with a sheepish smile of his own.

Eames' eyes went round and blank, and Arthur very nearly held his breath, waiting.

"Bugger me," Eames finally breathed explosively. He fixed Arthur was a look that was equal parts stunned and admiring. "That long?!"

Arthur smirked and shrugged. "I wanted a chance to get to know you when you weren't guarded against me. I wanted to let you get to know me, even if you didn't _know_ it was me. I didn't want to rush things. And, to be honest, the dream was so nice that I didn't want to ruin it before I had to. I ended up leaving it too long; I should have told you an hour or two before I did. But I wanted.... I liked spending time with you. I didn't want that to end, even though I knew that it eventually had to. The dream, that is."

Eames drew in a deep breath, his eyes still fixed on Arthur's face, his expression unreadable. It wasn't that he was trying to hide anything from Arthur. Arthur kind of thought he had stripped Eames of all his masks, at least for the moment. It was more as though Eames himself didn't know what to make of what Arthur had said or his own reactions.

"I.... If I hadn't spent so long in the dream with you," Eames finally said breathlessly, "I don't think I could believe what you're saying. But you...."

Arthur straightened, deciding it was time to lay all the cards on the table. "I want you, Eames. Any way you'll have me, but hopefully as a partner, both in the dream-share and in reality. In bed. And I know that you want me. Even if you were too much of a gentleman to get sexually involved with the projection of me, I heard enough from the Ariadne in your dream and spent enough time with you to be sure that it's true." He quirked a brow. "Unless you want to try to tell me it was only the projection of me that you were in love with?"

Eames flushed bright red, and tugged his hand away. Since he didn't look like he was going to run, Arthur loosed his wrist readily enough, let Eames have that small distance.

"This is hardly fair, Arthur," Eames mumbled into his chest. "You've seen to the depths of me, but I have to take your word for it."

Arthur couldn't help the incredulous laugh that burst out of him. "Really? Eames, I'm the one laying things on the line here. I'm the one confessing. Sure, I already know how you _feel_ , but I don't know how you're going to _respond_. You could break my heart, right now, and I'd be the one who'd end up feeling like an idiot. If anything, you're the one with the unfair advantage!"

Eames was watching him silently. "I guess you have a point," he said, his tone mild. Arthur's outburst seemed to have calmed the panic that had been rising in him, and now he looked thoughtful. Then he shook his head, his brow creasing beneath the ragged fringe of his messy bangs. "But... _why_ , Arthur? After all these years, why have you decided you're... interested? Why now?"

"I've actually been asking myself that same question," Arthur admitted, taking a sip of his cooling tea. "But why _not_ now? Things like this.... Sometimes they strike instantly and hard, like Cobb and Mal's romance. But most of the time they're something that takes years to build, like their marriage after the courtship. There isn't always an epiphany. When did you decide that you were... _interested_ in me?"

Eames' mouth worked soundlessly for a moment.

"You see?" Arthur tilted his head. "I'm not asking for vows of mutual devotion, Eames. I know we both have a lot to work through; issues that are ours individually as well as challenges in our daily interactions with one another. All I'm asking for, today, is that you give me a chance. Forgive me for sneaking into your dream and pretending to be a projection. Let me kiss you when you know I'm me, that I'm real. Your dream was beautiful, but we can have that, now, here, while we're awake. You just have to give it to me, and you have to allow yourself to have it."

Eames was giving Arthur a very intent look, and Arthur fell silent. He had poured out everything he had to offer, everything he could think to say. Now it was on Eames to respond.

"Have you been rehearsing that?" Eames asked, and he sounded honestly curious, didn't seem inclined to mock or sublimate.

Arthur shook his head. "No," he replied honestly. "Eames, I'm making all of this up as I go along. I'm speaking from the heart here."

Eames smiled, slowly but with growing happiness. The weariness and stress seemed to melt away from him, leaving behind only the forger that Arthur had known and come to care for. Except that now Arthur was well aware of the many different facets Eames had concealed from him -- from everyone -- in the past. And from here on out he wasn't going to forget or let himself be distracted by the masks that Eames so often hid behind.

"Well, how could I reject such eloquence?" Eames drawled, his eyes crinkling in the way that Arthur really loved. "Especially seeing as you've already proven yourself several times over."

Arthur paused a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Eames didn't seem inclined to add a "but" to his last sentence.

"Is it really going to be that easy?" he asked, blinking rapidly, trying to swallow down the swell of rising hope in his chest.

Eames smiled at him, almost shyly. "Arthur." And there it was, the caressing drawl that Arthur could admit to himself that he had wanted to hear. "While your self-doubt is strangely endearing, I've had a lot of time to think, these last seven days. I can't apologize for the projection of you because that was my subconscious, it was out of my control. But I _do_ apologize for running, and for not coming back to you. Call me a coward, because I probably am, but I... I just couldn't do it."

"Even though I have your wallet and your PASIV device," Arthur couldn't help adding with a smirk.

Eames nodded. "One of which is more easily replaced than the other." He licked his lips, and Arthur had to make an effort to sit still and let the man finish his thought, instead of lunging across, or _through_ the flimsy table between them and pouncing him. "At any rate. I've had a week to think about what happened. Once I'd accepted that it was really you in my dream, kissing me, trying to _tell_ me... then I had to consider what you were doing. And since I found it highly unlikely that you were playing cruel games with my psyche, I was forced to conclude that you... that you _meant_ what you had said, what you had done."

Arthur was grinning. He couldn't help it. "I did. I do. Of course." He was just so relieved that Eames was being reasonable and not making a huge fuss over this. He tipped his head curiously. "And that was when you came back to Paris and stopped running?"

Eames nodded, and he had the look of a little boy who had been particularly naughty, but who was secure in the knowledge that he was so cute he wasn't going to get in too much trouble for it.

"Did you mean for Professor Miles to see you?" Arthur wanted to know, shrugging easily out of his jacket and twisting at the waist to hang it deliberately over the back of his chair. "Or was that a happy accident?"

"Was that what it was?" Eames chuckled. "That must have been serendipity. But I didn't doubt that you would track me down, sooner rather than later."

Arthur frowned at him, half meaning the expression. "Don't sell yourself short, Eames. You kept me running for a week, and who knows how much longer it would have been if Miles hadn't mentioned to Cobb that he'd seen you."

"Oh. Well." Eames managed to look chagrinned and smug at once. Arthur liked seeing this expression on his face -- it was definitely better than the fear or anger that he'd been more than half expecting -- but to be honest, he was ready to be done with talking. They had covered just about everything and, miracle of miracles, beyond all of his expectations and hope, they understood one another. At least enough to start with, at any rate.

"We should repair to the bed," he said evenly, already unbuttoning his cuffs. "This table is small and I could knock it out of the way easily enough, but it would be a shame to break these lovely tea things."

Eames' gaze flickered, immediately darkening with lust, and he eyed the ceramics as though he was actually considering taking Arthur up on his threat. But Arthur had little intention of indulging in such wanton destruction, however good the cause. So he stood and stepped toward the bed, trusting that Eames would follow.

"Arthur." Eames stepped up smoothly behind him, slipping his arms around his waist in a move that Arthur recalled clearly from the dream-share. Only now they were not dreaming, and Eames knew that he was really Arthur. Eames' breath gusted hot over the back of his neck, his forehead hard against the base of Arthur's skull and he could do nothing but stand there, soaking in the sensation. It was so much better knowing that Eames wasn't mistaking him for a projection of himself. There was just no comparison.

"Please don't take this the wrong way, love," Eames murmured into his nape, "And do feel free to tell me I'm wrong. But as much as I want you to take me to bed and do unspeakable things to me, you look completely knackered. I'm half fearful that as good a lover as I know myself to be, you're going to nod off halfway through."

Arthur turned without breaking Eames' light embrace, looping his arms around the other man's shoulders and neck. "And yet you only have one bed," he replied, grinning wickedly. "We both need sleep, so we're going to have to share. Now." He tilted his head. "Do you really think that we can manage that without sex happening?"

Eames glanced over Arthur's shoulder at the bed, his eyes heavy-lidded, his plush lips curving into an answering smirk that Arthur itched to kiss away. And since Eames didn't seem to be in any hurry to reply, Arthur gave in to this temptation and leaned forward the inch or two that it took to claim his mouth.

It was much like kissing Eames in the dream had been, while at the same time being nothing like that. They were in reality, and Eames was kissing Arthur back this time, with a full awareness that he was really himself and not just a projection of Eames' own subconscious.

The swells of Eames' lips against Arthur's own were as soft and yet firm as he had expected, the flesh warm against his own. Eames tasted faintly of tea, but that hardly signified, as Arthur traced the line of his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, before sliding it over the dip of his lower lip and into his hot mouth.

Eames groaned, his hands coming to rest on Arthur's hips, palms heavy and solid and _there_ , his body heat searing through the material of Arthur's slacks. Arthur felt the sudden desire to be shed of each article of clothing that he had on, but even more he wanted to get _Eames_ naked.

Wrenching his mouth away from Eames', he dragged the other man over to stand beside the bed, his fingers going to the row of neat buttons that went down the front of his shirt, exposing an expanding strip of lightly-furred, darkly tattooed skin as he quickly, efficiently undid each one.

"Do you have any idea," he said softly, careful to keep his voice low and steady even though he was breathless with desire, burning from the inside out, "How hard it was to keep myself from just grabbing you and having my way with you in your dream? For four whole days?"

He glanced up, smirking at the dark flush his words brought to Eames' cheeks, enjoying the way Eames opened his mouth but said nothing, his lips pressure-bruised and moist with their mingled saliva. Oh, Arthur had all kinds of plans for that mouth. And he intended to reciprocate each act on Eames in turn. There was so much he wanted to do that he almost had no idea where to start.

Well, getting Eames stripped was a good beginning.

"I've always been impressed by your self control," Eames purred, standing still as Arthur slid his hands inside the gap of his open shirt, moving his palms up the planes of his chest, over the broad lines of his shoulders, and then down his arms to shove the shirt off. It fluttered to the floor, already forgotten. "Though I think that perhaps in that case you should not have abstained."

Arthur smirked at him, pausing a moment with his hands back on Eames' shoulders. "It wasn't the right time," he said, leaning closer, breathing in the scent of Eames. Fresh perspiration and cologne and _man_.... It was heady and perfect, and it was all for him. He wasn't going to share Eames, and he wasn't going to let him go. Not after this. Never again.

"Perhaps not," Eames allowed, but he sounded as distracted as Arthur felt. There was so much heat between them in this moment. Body heat, yes, but also the rising flare of their mutual desire.

Arthur waited a moment. He had kissed Eames twice now -- once in the dream and once while waking -- and he had no compunctions about doing it again, but he wanted to see if Eames really was as willing and eager as he seemed.

It wasn't a test; Arthur wasn't that insecure or needy. In fact, he took full advantage the opportunity to examine Eames' tattoos during this pause. With his fingertips as well as his eyesight. They were messy, mismatched, and they were perfectly suited to the man. Someday Arthur was going to trace each one with his tongue, he vowed to himself, but not right now.

"Arthur...." He raised his gaze at that deep rumble. And he had thought he'd liked it when Eames spoke his name in a teasing, intimate manner. It was so much better when he had the throaty gravel of sexual arousal in his voice.

Leaning forward, much as Arthur had done, Eames kissed him. It was simply the press of lips to lips at first, but that chaste touch didn't last long. Their tongue twined together, vying for dominance. Neither of them won, per se, but Arthur kind of thought that they were both winners in this particular situation.

While Eames was distracted, Arthur took the opportunity to undo his fly. Soon Eames' slacks were on the floor along with his shirt, in a puddle around his ankles, and Arthur had a double handful of the man's ass through the thin material of his underwear.

"Arthur!" Eames gasped as he wrenched his mouth away, and it might almost have been amusing how surprised he was by this boldness, all things considered. As though Arthur had any intention of taking things slow.

"I told you," Arthur growled, grinning at Eames, feeling the expression fierce on his flushed face. "Four days of having to keep my hands off of you, Eames. That day we got caught in the rain and you stripped as soon as we got home? I don't know how I managed to get into the shower to jerk off without jumping you right there in the entryway."

Eames was staring at him, his delicious, pornographic lips rounded in a ruddy circle, his eyes wide as well. Arthur had no reason any longer to restrain himself, and so he lunged forward and licked his way into that mouth, nipping at the full swell of his lower lip, pressing in closer to seal their mouths more tightly together.

Eames kissed him back just as fervently and his nimble hands were restless, running over Arthur's spine through his shirt, then tracing his waistband, and finally moving to grasp at his rear the same way Arthur's hands were flexing on Eames' ass cheeks. The underwear was going to have to go, along with Arthur's clothes, but that could wait. They were _kissing_ now.

Eventually they needed to breathe. It was an unfortunate necessity, but it was one Arthur begrudged a little less when Eames used the opportunity to get to work on Arthur's shirt buttons. Since he'd already undone his cuffs, it didn't take much to get him stripped to the waist.

"Get on the bed," he ordered, even as Eames groped for his fly.

Eames blinked at him, flushed, bright-eyed, his mouth rich with color. He looked even better than he had when Arthur had entered the room, looked alive and alert and already completely debauched. Arthur licked his lips and waited to see if Eames would do as he'd been told or if Arthur would have to _put_ the man on the bed. Either possibility filled him with the sharp spark of excitement, and he moved to unzip his own slacks.

Eames licked his lips as though in unconscious echo of Arthur then hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear, peeling them down before sliding onto the mattress in a luxuriating slouch.

Arthur didn't bother trying to hide his grin. Leave it to Eames to find a way to both obey and be willful at once.

He gave the logistics of this tryst a moment of thought as he quickly and efficiently stripped. The bed that Eames was lounging naked on was really nothing more than a twin with pretensions of being a queen. But Arthur was slim, Eames was slimmer than he had used to be, and they were both perfectly willing to press in close to one another. Sharing space was not an issue.

Besides. There was a naked Eames on the bed. Arthur would have gotten to the floor, the back seat of a cab, or even a public restroom for a piece of that.

Fortunately, he wasn't in any of those places, and Eames welcomed him readily into his arms as Arthur joined him on the mattress.

"We'll have to get a bigger bed," Arthur murmured as he moved in to kiss Eames again, their thighs sliding together, hot and solid, their dicks slotted between their lower bellies in a way that was both extremely satisfying and nothing like enough. "A bigger apartment, as well."

Eames caught his breath, but whether it was simply in surprise or whether he'd been about to say something, Arthur didn't give him a chance to reply, pressing him back into the mattress as he kissed him hard, deep, and possessive.

It was everything that he had wanted while in the dream with Eames, and even more so, because they were both awake, and Eames knew that Arthur was himself, knew he wasn't a projection, knew how Arthur felt, and Arthur knew how Eames felt. It was even _more_ than he had wanted, and Arthur never wanted it to end.

Oh, he wanted to come. He intended to make Eames come. But that wasn't going to be the end of it. That was only going to be the beginning.

Eames arched beneath him, powerful hands grabbing at Arthur's back, at his bare ass, pulling him closer, working their bodies together. He wasn't fighting Arthur, was making no effort to exert control over their embrace, but Arthur could feel the strength of the male body beneath his, knew that the potential was there, and this only made him feel hotter. There would be time for struggles of dominance and control later, he knew. Right now, they were both focused solely on getting off. And that was good too.

Contrary to Eames' fears, Arthur didn't think he had ever felt less like dozing off in his life. His blood was pulsing through his veins hot and fast, his heart beating fiercely against his breastbone, and he felt as though every nerve ending was alight. Pleasure followed the path of Eames' hands over his skin, and he couldn't get his own hands on enough of Eames' body in turn. Eames felt amazing under his roaming fingers, solid heat covered by smooth skin, and the finest ass Arthur had ever seen on anyone in his life. At the risk of being repetitive, he kept finding himself groping Eames' rear, even as he worked his lips and teeth down the line of the man's neck, then back up to the sensitive hollow behind and beneath his ear.

"Arthur!" Eames choked, arching up against him, his hard dick digging into Arthur's belly, sliding alongside Arthur's own, both of them wet and leaking in the lack of space between their close-pressed bodies. Arthur wanted to get his mouth on Eames' dick, wanted Eames' mouth on his, but for now he was more than happy to settle for his fingers. Holding Eames close to him with one arm, he managed to work the other hand between them, never once letting up his tormenting of the delicate flesh of Eames' neck, and got Eames' erection in his palm.

Eames let out the most delicious sounds as Arthur bit at his earlobe, tugged at his foreskin with a careful insistence. Arthur rubbed the pad of his thumb over the slit at the tip of Eames' dick, feeling a searing blurt of precome spill out and over his fingers. He managed to get both their dicks in his hand; even though he had big hands, they were both of a larger than average size where their dicks were concerned, and so it wasn't easy. He was determined, though, and feeling his own hard-on rubbing up against the hot, hard, pulsing length of Eames' own was a reward in its own right.

Eames whimpered, his hips moving rhythmically against Arthur's body. One of his hands was spread over the twinned arch of Arthur's shoulderblades, the other had clamped over one ass cheek, his fingers flexing in time with their movements against one another, in counterpoint to the clumsy stroking that Arthur began to give both their dicks at the same time. It was a bad angle, but there was so much mingled sweat and precome that his hand moved easily enough, and at this point, even the most awkward of manipulation was plenty of stimulation.

It had been a long time since Arthur had had sex like this; fumbling and frantic and more concerned with the need to come than any sort of technique or finesse. Probably since he'd been in his early teens, no less, but this wasn't a bad thing. As he felt his orgasm building in his lower belly, pulling his balls up tight, Arthur thought that it was a very _good_ thing.

Eames was gasping out his name in tight little explosions of breath, in his ear, and both of his hands were on Arthur's ass now, urging him onward. When Arthur tumbled Eames onto his back, he went easily, his thighs falling open so that Arthur could settle between them. Taking a chance, Arthur let go his grip on their dicks, instead pressing his hips down tightly against Eames', grinding into him and letting gravity and friction take over the task his fingers had been doing up to this point.

His thighs coming up to lock around Arthur, his arms tight around his upper back, Eames let out a low moan. Arthur grabbed at Eames' shoulders, holding on tightly for leverage as he thrust his hips into Eames' with as much force as his flexing legs and the grip of his toes on the mattress could afford him. He was rewarded after a few wilding pulsing heartbeats with the sensation of Eames stiffening under him, crying out softly as he twisted and hot come spilled between them.

Arthur choked as this searing wetness broke over the sensitized surface of his own erection. Eames went limp, falling down in a shuddering, whimpering pile of lean limbs and red cheeks on the bed, and Arthur used this moment to break free of the other man's embrace, rearing up so that he was kneeling above Eames, straddling his hips. Reaching down, he stripped his own climax out of his demanding dick. It only took a few strokes, slicking Eames' come into his erection more than enough to bring him off. He shot on the sweat and spunk soaked surface of Eames' stomach, pearly white liquid running over the smooth skin and catching in dark, curling hairs.

Hanging there for a moment over Eames, Arthur caught his breath, reaching down with the hand not still cradling his flagging erection to smear their mingled come into Eames' belly. It might have been a bit presumptuous of him, considering that the two of them had only just recently come to some sort of an understanding, but he felt a warm surge of ownership rising up to fill the space that his recent orgasm was leaving as it faded away.

"How very primal of you, darling," Eames rumbled, but he was smirking up at Arthur through the glow of perspiration and the warmth of his own waning climax. His eyes were clear but his lids were drooping, and suddenly Arthur was aware of how very exhausted he was too.

"Maybe," Arthur allowed, sinking down onto the mattress beside Eames, using the corner of the sheet to try and wipe off his hand and Eames' stomach. A shower or even a wet washcloth would have served better, but that would require one or both of them getting up from the bed. And that just wasn't going to happen.

Together they managed to fumble the covers over top of themselves, and then, despite the fact that it was barely half past four in the afternoon, Paris time, they settled down to sleep. Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames, pulling him close despite the sweat and the come and the fact that he usually didn't care for cuddling. And Eames unhesitatingly wrapped his arms around Arthur in return.

Arthur reveled in the feeling of closeness, of finally having what he had spent so long wanting. And then he drifted off, with pleasure and repletion warming him from the inside out, and Eames' body heat warming his outside.

***

Arthur slept deeply and dreamlessly for several hours. When he woke, Eames was watching him sleep, but he looked drowsy and unfocused, as though he had only recent awakened himself, his head still resting on the pillow beside Arthur's head.

"Hello," Arthur said, reaching up and running his fingertips down the line of Eames' jaw, simply because he could.

"Are you really here?" Eames whispered, biting at his lower lip lightly. He didn't sound distraught, though. Only curious and a little needy. Arthur had every intention of fulfilling all of Eames' needs.

"Yes," he answered, thumbing at Eames' plump lower lip, already thinking of sex again. He was hungry, though, and they both needed a shower. Preferably together. "Do you need to get your totem?"

Eames shook his head and smiled slightly, ducking his head but maintaining eye contact. "No. I trust you, Arthur."

Arthur just had to kiss Eames breathless after this declaration.

"What shall we do now?" Eames asked, once Arthur had released his mouth. He sounded sleepy, contented, one heavy palm smoothing over the dip of Arthur's waist, then cupping his hip.

"Mm. Well, first a bath," Arthur replied decisively "Then I want to find out if you can make an omelet as well in reality as you can in the dream."

"That sounds like a challenge to me," Eames said, and his smile was slow in building but it was real and it was growing brighter with each moment that passed. He looked just as charmed as Arthur felt, and Arthur counted this as a win. "But, you realize, that if you expect me to make you breakfast, that means we'll both have to be here in the morning."

Arthur gave him a fierce look. "I expect us both to be here in the morning," he declared firmly. "And every morning from here on out. No more dreaming, Eames."

Eames nodded, his expression thoughtful. "There's no more need," he said softly. "Not now that I know I have you."

Arthur had to kiss him again. It would have been slightly ridiculous not to. But it was a light press of lips on lips, because there were too many other things they needed to be doing. Like bathing, eating, making phone calls....

"Actually," Arthur mused, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. He hadn't bothered with product while he had been chasing Eames, and he saw the man's eyes light up as he watched Arthur attempt to tame his errant curls. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we should save the omelet for breakfast. We should call Ariadne and ask her to have dinner with us tonight."

Eames stretched luxuriantly, arms and legs shivering, a few flakes of dried come clinging to his taut stomach muscles in testament to what they had done together. "That sounds nice," he rumbled, and it sounded like he meant it. "I think I need to buy some eggs before I can make any omelets, anyway."

Arthur rolled over top of Eames on his way out of bed, bending down for another kiss, then reaching down to drag the other man up after him. Eames groaned, but stood readily enough, already reaching for Arthur with greedy hands. Arthur evaded his grip; only because he was going to get them both into the bathroom. Where he had some plans for hot water, Eames' dick, and some quality time spent on his knees.

It was pretty clear from the lack of protest and the focused gleam in his eyes that Eames read most of Arthur's intent in his smirk. As well as the alacrity with which he followed him into the bathroom.

After he had gotten reacquainted with Eames' dick and they had both bathed, then Arthur would call Cobb and let him know things had gone well. He would call Ariadne, allow her to gloat for a bit, then hand the phone to Eames so that she could castigate him as much or as little as she wanted. Then the three of them would go out to dinner... and then maybe to the park.

Eames was not alone. Arthur had Eames. And Ariadne was very likely going to laugh at them both.

It was Ariadne who had brought them together again. But it was Arthur who had made things happen. In a roundabout, sneaky way, it was true. But now that he _had_ Eames, he wasn't going to let him go again.

"We're not dreaming now," he murmured, and they were both smiling as their lips met under the running water.

=[end]=


End file.
